


on moonlight bay

by cakecakecake



Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Adulthood, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bisexual Female Character, Break Up, Cabin Fic, Cheating, Childhood Friends, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Getting Back Together, Hand-wavy Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Partying, Post-Canon, Smoking, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vacation, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: you have stolen my heart, and gone away.gerald and phoebe are tying the knot. nobody tells helga that arnold is coming home to be their best man.
Relationships: Helga Pataki/Arnold Shortman, Helga Pataki/Lila Sawyer, Nadine/Sheena (Hey Arnold!), Phoebe Heyerdahl/Gerald Johanssen, Stinky Peterson/Sid, Thaddeus "Curly" Gammelthorpe/Rhonda Wellington Lloyd
Comments: 66
Kudos: 52





	1. monday

**Author's Note:**

> if there's one trope i'm weak for, it's wedding hookups. 
> 
> somewhat-canon-compliant, operating under the notion that arnold moved away sometime in middle school, leading to a shortaki breakup. the year is 2015, so he and the friends are about 27-28 (with the exception of harold, who's around 31-32 here) 
> 
> rated m for language, smoking, and some adult themes, will add tags as we go along. 
> 
> i'm no stranger to self-indulgence, but this fic is different than my usual manifestation of indulgence, lol. if you so choose to embark on this journey, i thank you profusely for it. as a 90s kid whose family moved around a lot, this show was one of the closest things i have to a childhood home. i'm a simpleton, i see the sunset arms/arnold's bedroom, i feel safe and held. hopefully if you feel as strongly about it as i do, this fic will provide you a comfort similar to the one i felt whilst writing it.

The sun burns brighter this side of Moonlight Bay. Hotter. It looks bigger, almost, close in her rear-view mirror. As Helga G. Pataki squints her eyes, neck craned to get a better glimpse of the upcoming street-signs, she remembers a quaint little melody from decades before. Humming along.

A spring concert, fourth grade, the vision of herself in a pastel dress in front of a shallow audience. A Thursday night. A convenient view of the field of cornflower hair from her spot in the alto section. _You have stolen my heart, and gone away_. She smiles, in spite of herself. She hasn’t thought about it in such a long time that she’s forgotten how much it hurts to do so. She slows down in accordance with the speed limit and turns into the entryway for the Starside Hotel. 

Count on Rhonda to pick the gaudiest possible place to shack up for a week, she scowls to herself, wrinkling her nose as she pulls into the back parking lot. She’s paying for it, sure, but even as the benefactor of the wedding, she could have at least asked Gerald and Phoebe if they had a preference. One look at the tone-deaf futuristic architecture and she can already _hear_ Gerald’s snide remarks on the design, but, again. She’s paying for it, so she imagines they hadn’t made much of a fuss. It wasn’t as though they had much of a selection out here, as it was. Compared to the crumbling foundations of the Heart-O’-Hillwood down the street, and the decrepit Robin Inn farther up the mountain, the pompous, _bougie_ vibes of Starside would be far more tolerable than whatever either of those obviously haunted spaces would have had to offer. Helga guesses she can be a little more grateful.

She’s early, but it probably doesn’t matter. Knowing Rhonda, she probably set everyone up with lenient check-in accommodations, and surely enough, when she gives her name at the concierge, they hand her a key card right away. 

Third floor. Two Queens, atrium view. It smells like jasmine and freshly tumbled linen when she walks in. There’s an arrangement of pink carnations and a thank-you card on the table that she just _knows_ Phoebe hadn’t picked the design for. There’s a tug at her lips as she sinks onto the feather-bed to read it.

_From the bottom of our hearts, we, Gerald Martin Johanssen and Phoebe Akemi Heyerdahl, thank you, our esteemed guest, for your presence here at our celebration of love._

_On behalf of our benefactor, Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd, we hope you enjoy the site of our engagement to the fullest extent, and we look forward to seeing your face among our sea of treasured friends and family at the ceremony._

_Cheers!_

Right, Gerald proposed here.

Not here in the hotel, here, but on the lake, at sunset. Five years ago. Phoebe was moving back to the city to finish her degree at home, and Gerald had just left a toxic relationship and dropped out of college. Rather than wait to see if she’d even be interested in getting back together, he just popped the question. No fanfare, no grandiose gesture -- he hadn’t even gotten a ring yet. It was their first date in years. And she’d said yes. They’d been inseparable ever since. 

They were lucky. They were among the few who were.

Nadine and Sheena were lucky. Nadine had her eyes on Sheena for years. She came out right at the start of high school. When Eugene had finally come into who he was, he broke up with Sheena, and that was about when it started -- with a kiss at a homecoming dance, tenth grade. They went to the same community college and now they run an animal shelter together. They adopted a little girl last year, and they live right on the outskirts of town, close to where they grew up. Sheena’s about to get her teaching license. They have two dogs, four cats, a cockatiel, and a boa constrictor. Sometimes Helga wonders how they’re even real. 

Sid and Stinky were lucky, too, at least to have each other. Stinky had a lot of problems with drugs, and Sid, an ongoing struggle with anxiety -- it look a long time for either one of them to come out. A lot of bad relationships, a lot of money troubles. When Stinky’s father passed away in 2012, Sid moved in, just as a friend. To help out, to be supportive. But from then on, _it was only a matter of time_ , Gerald had said. 

Harold wasn’t so fortunate. His story was one of the sadder ones, one that reminded Helga too much of her own family history. He fell into a whirlwind romance and became a father at twenty-two, not at all equipped for marriage. His now ex-wife was a struggling alcoholic, but he lost a bitter custody battle since her family came from _old_ money. Money he didn’t have to raise a daughter alone. Little Sarah is adorable, though, the light of his world. He’d say it wasn’t all bad, that he’d do all it again, just for her. 

Rhonda hadn’t been either, though her journey wasn’t quite the same -- she’d been engaged to Rex Smythe-Higgins (the III) around the same time her family had been suffering during the recession. She denies it to the day, but the rumors about the Lloyds making an arrangement to secure their wealth spread like wildfire. They were to be married once Rex completed his four-year term at Princeton, but fortunately for Rhonda, it turned out he’d been cheating on her with the family housemaid. Before the affair could be made into a public scandal, Rex III called off the engagement and disappeared to Romania in 2013 -- not without paying serious “emotional reparations” to his ex-fiancee, of course. Helga would name her the luckiest of them all, if she weren’t neck-deep in a love triangle with Harold Berman and Thaddeus “Curly” Gammelthorpe. 

(Then again, she did that to herself, so maybe she really _is_ the luckiest.)

Helga’s not sure where she herself falls, if she’s one of the lucky ones or not. All things considered, she’s turning out better than she thought she would. Happier, even without a spouse or a stable career. Her parents aren’t really involved in her life, and she supposes it’s a blessing. At eleven years old, there’d been nothing she wanted more than to get away from them. Three years later, it finally happened.

Miriam was trying to get better, and Bob couldn’t handle it. His business was finally bouncing back, having swallowed his pride and partnered up with a larger company, but he couldn’t swallow it down enough to let Miriam sober up and land a higher-paying job than him. They fought so much that Olga had to step in. She took her from them, away from their explosive divorce, and with years of therapy and the right medication, Helga would learn how to heal. 

She just wishes she could’ve done so _before_ she decided to dump the love of her life and ruin everything. But no, she was fourteen and she knew everything, of course, like all fourteen-year-olds do. Supposedly, she knew Arnold Shortman would be much better off without her, so she broke up with him over AIM in ninth grade, and hadn't had a conversation with him that went deeper than hey-how-are-things since. She can't even remember the last time she'd heard his voice. 

She doesn't talk to him, but she still thinks about him. She wishes she didn't. If only she could be so lucky. It hadn't been too often that she did, but once Phoebe and Gerald buckled down on the wedding plans, she couldn't stop. It figures -- honestly, she doesn't deserve a reprieve. She doesn't deserve to move on and pretend he doesn't exist, even if that's what she insists happened in the end. It's hard, accepting _that_ as the end -- their end, after everything they've been through. But. 

People like me get what we deserve, she tells herself. Helga heaves a sigh. 

She can barely get her lighter to spark a flame. It’s not too windy out. The weather’s beautiful, no hotter than eighty degrees, not a cloud in the sky. A perfect summer afternoon. Helga lights up a Newport, leans over the railing, looking out across the courtyard at the parade of people wheeling suitcases along the stony path toward the lobby. She wonders how many of them belong to either Gerald or Phoebe’s family, or if maybe she can spot a friend or an old acquaintance among them. 

There’s someone with a peculiar-looking luggage set chatting with a bellhop near the central fountain, but she’s too high up to get a decent look. Rhonda is her initial guess, but she knows her style, it couldn’t be her. Not enough animal print, no glaring designer logos. She narrows her eyes, and sees that whoever it is, they’re blonde. Maybe it’s Nadine. She blows out a puff of smoke and flicks her cigarette, watching the specks of ashes fall away to the pavement below. 

Her phone jingles with an alert. She takes another long drag before putting it out. It’s a text, from Phoebe. 

**we’re here too! meet you in the lobby?**

Helga ties her hair up and stuffs her smokes in her purse, pockets her phone in her joggers. She glances at herself in the wide stretch of mirror in the marble bathroom, figuring she has nobody to impress for the time being. It was only Monday. Most of the guests weren’t arriving until later in the week, and their friends know what she looks like on travel days. She slips on her canvas shoes and makes for the elevator. 

There’s no one in the shaft. It’s a quick ride down, and nobody’s there when the doors hiss open. She looks up for the sign to the lobby and takes the sharp corner turn to meet her friends when she smacks hard into a broad expanse of densely built chest. 

She lets out a yelp, ass hitting the floor as she hears an eerily familiar voice apologize, “Oh, my God, I’m so s...Helga?”

The flow of blood freezes to ice in her chest as she looks up, right into the bright green eyes staring a hole into her. No fucking way.

“Arnold?” she manages, forgetting how to breathe. 

From the stark white of his face, it seems he’s forgotten, too.

“Helga…” 

Time slows, grinding to a halt. For a moment they just stare at each other, dumbstruck, like neither one can grasp what the other is seeing. The tile feels strangely cold beneath her. Her pulse is drumming in her ears. She feels frozen in place, her heart the only moving part of her body, beating a wild, panicked rhythm in her throat. 

He looks to be on the verge of an episode himself, trembling from head to toe as he swallows, visibly, reaching out a hand to help her up as if by instinct. Dazed, she allows him to pull her up to full height. 

(she could almost laugh -- she’s still taller than him.) (not by much -- but still. taller.)

His eyes seem glued to her. He’s fixated on her face, unblinking, and it’s quickly becoming clear that if she wants the silence to break, she’ll need to be the one to do it. Her voice cracks when she finally opens her mouth. 

“Never learned how to watch where you’re going, huh,” she teases him half-heartedly, chewing her bottom lip. 

He smiles. It’s magnetic and dazzling and contagious and gives her the sudden urge to vomit. He is so, so beautiful, impossibly so. Even more than he used to be. Ethereal. A celestial being. He laughs and it sounds like _God_. 

“I guess not,” he agrees. He wets his lips, still staring back at her. As if completely entranced. She suddenly wishes she’d come down in anything other than a hoodie and unwashed sweatpants. “Wow.”

“Oh boy,” a voice cuts through the palpable tension in the air around them. The groom himself passes between them, chewing on a straw and fiddling on his phone. Helga shoots him a Look, and then Gerald promptly hides in the elevator, sticking his tongue out at her as the doors draw shut behind Arnold.

“I didn’t know you were…” she starts, trying to think of something, anything to say, avoiding the flood of feelings coursing through her. Arnold shifts uncomfortably on the spot, leaning on his massive suitcase for a balance he seems to have lost.

“Yeah, I thought Gerald would have said something, but,” he doesn’t finish, finally breaking eye contact. The color is rising rapidly in his face, and Helga starts to feel her own cheeks burning.

“Are you...visiting?” _Well obviously!_ , she scolds herself, but thankfully he’s just as awkward, fidgeting with the buttons on his flannel. Red flannel, with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. It's a little too long on him. White shirt underneath, old and worn enough that it hangs low around his neck. She can peep the beauty mark at the hollow of his throat. She tries not to think of what it felt like to kiss him there, once upon a time. In another life. 

“Yeah, yeah, um, just for the week,” she hears him say. “I couldn’t miss it, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, no, of course not,” she stumbles, oh-so smoothly, yes, _great job Pataki_. “Best friend’s wedding.”

“Yeah,” he says. A tangible silence falls between them for an uncomfortable twenty seconds, and Helga’s strongly considering just booking it when he finally says, “I’m -- I’m sorry I didn’t -- I should have told you.” 

“Oh, no, no it’s fine, um,” she lies through her teeth. No, this is most certainly _not_ fine -- this is the last thing she expected -- the last thing she needed to happen -- this is the worst possible turn of events -- “I just, um…”

 _Oh no, no no no, you are not going to faint_ , she fights herself, a swooping feeling at the back of her head. Her vision is getting fuzzy, the weakness in her knees threatening to buckle and land her back on her ass again, but there is no way in hell she’s letting that happen --

“Helga, are you alright?” Of course he asks, because of course he’s still Arnold, hyper-sensitive to other’s emotions. The more things change, the more they stay the same. He’s upon her in seconds, hand at the small of her back to steady her, the oceanic scent of his shampoo only dizzying her further. 

“I’m fine, really, I’m fine. Just,” she insists, with little conviction, knowing she shouldn’t be looking into his eyes but she is. She is and now she can’t look away, doesn’t want to. Doesn’t ever want to look at anyone else. Fuck. Her head is swimming. “Um, I gotta go get ready for the uh...Rhonda’s picking me up soon for a mani-pedi.”

She wriggles away feebly and Arnold frowns, like he’s mourning the loss of contact. She can feel his eyes trained on the back of her head as she pushes for “up” on the elevator. 

“O-Oh, o-okay,” he says in a small voice. Evidently disappointed. She shouldn’t turn back to look at him again, but she does, and when she does, he smiles. Easily, brightly. He looks happy. She feels a fluttering in her chest like her heart’s been dissolved into a swarm of delicate butterflies. 

“But I’ll see you later, maybe?” she makes the mistake of sounding too eager. _Criminey, Helga, could you sound any more like a lost puppy?_ It’s not much of a save, but she adds, a little more evenly, “Or tomorrow?”

“Y-Yeah!” he stutters. Well, at least she’s not the only one completely flustered. One small comfort. “Yeah, tomorrow, definitely!”

“Great. Right. Um, okay, I’ll -- I’ll see you then, Arnold,” she says, clipped by the buzzing of the shaft doors parting open for entry. She steps inside without a look back, but the needy croak of Arnold’s voice beckons her.

“Um -- Helga?”

“Yes?”

“You look good, Helga,” he says quietly, eyes drooping into that half-lidded stare she fought so hard to forget about. “Really good.”

“O-oh, um,” she stammers, watching him sway on the spot. As the doors move closed, she manages to reply with a much-too enthusiastic blunder of “So do you.” 

She could slap herself. 

“Shit,” she says, half-laughing alone in the elevator. “Shiiiiiiit!”

***

“ -- fucking jackass, you didn’t tell me _Arnold_ was coming!”

Gerald doesn’t even get the door closed before Helga starts firing off at him at full volume. He scrambles to turn off the TV, the sound of Phoebe’s hair dryer powering off the only other noise in the room as he follows her around to the mini-kitchen, grabbing her an emotional support Yahoo! soda. 

Phoebe gapes at him in disbelief, adjusting her glasses. “Gerald, you said you’d tell her!”

Annoyingly smug and totally oblivious to her plight (or totally uncaring, but Helga can’t tell at the moment), Gerald throws a hand up, handing her the drink (which she snatches with force). “What, and ruin the surprise?”

“If you weren’t about to marry my best friend, I’d have your head on a pike, you dickfuck!” 

“Oh swallow it, Pataki,” Gerald spits back, twisting the top off a beer, not even looking back at her. “You’re fucking ecstatic to see him, you shoulda seen your face.” 

“Yeah, I made a fucking fool of myself thanks to you!”

“Now, now, let’s not fight,” Phoebe tries to mediate, wedging herself between her groom and her maid of honor. “Do you want to sit for a minute, Helga? Maybe take an Excedrin?” 

“I need a fucking Xanax after that,” she groans, folding her arms across her chest. 

Gerald, hilariously, is tone-deaf as usual, settling down on the recliner and putting his feet up. “Oh, _yes_ , with the dramatics! You never fail me, Pataki.”

“Oh I’m _so thrilled_ to provide the groom with prime entertainment,” she snaps with a flourish of hands, a defiant jut in her hips. “So proud as maid of honor to double as court jester!”

“Gerald, Helga is very emotionally affected by Arnold’s sudden appearance,” Phoebe says seriously, creasing her forehead. “And frankly, I’m disappointed in your lack of sensitivity -- ”

“Oh my _God_ , babes,” he says, stretching his arms casually. He frowns at Helga, laughter gone from his face as he looks her over. “If I’da known this was gonna be a whole _production_ I woulda just told you about it, honest!”

“Well, ya didn’t, Hair Boy!” she yelps, and he looks helpless.

“Well, whaddya want from me? I thought you’d be happy!” 

“I don’t know!” she shouts, blushing hotly, wildly embarrassed. She’s overreacting, she knows it, she has to be. She feels bad. She looks reproachful and Gerald looks apologetic. They never argue like this anymore, not really, and she's remembering why they stopped. She sighs, pressing a shaking hand to her temple. “God. Phoebe, smoke break.”

She jerks her head toward the balcony of their suite, and the smaller woman shuffles, grabbing the ashtray off the dining table. “Breaking!” 

She pulls the sliding door with enough force to send a gust of air _whoosh_ ing through the curtains. She fumbles for a cigarette, and Phoebe lights hers before her own. There’s two wicker chairs, and they settle down next to each other, the bride-to-be putting her tiny feet up against the bars of the railing. Helga slouches, taking a long drag. 

“I’m sorry about Gerald,” Phoebe starts. “I really thought he would say something.” 

“It’s fine, Pheebs, I know he didn’t mean anything by it,” she says, after a pause. “Sorry I flipped out.” 

“He doesn’t take it personally,” she smiles, and Helga lets herself smile, too.

“He never does. Guess that’s why I always liked him.”

“I’m glad you do. I wouldn’t marry anyone you didn’t approve of, you know.”

“Oh, Pheebs,” she says fondly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Helga,” she returns, looking softly at her. She takes a puff, grinning as she blows out smoke. “So...How does he look?”

“Like a fucking Greek _sun-god_ , Pheebs,” Helga whines, dragging a hand over her face. “Gorgeously tan and golden-blonde and built like a _brick shit-house_ \-- I hate my _fucking_ life.” 

“Oh, Helga,” Phoebe coos, dripping sympathy. Helga stares up at the sky. Still cloudless, sun blazing bright over the rooftops. The wind is picking up, now. 

“I’m in trouble, Pheebs,” she moans. “So much trouble.”

***

“She’s _gorgeous_ , Gerald,” Arnold breathes into the phone. Gerald’s got his eyes on the girls, watching them lounge on the balcony as he talks to his best man behind the glass, legs draped over the arms of the recliner like a kid. "Like, drop-dead. Like I actually almost died on the spot -- "

“I know, man, I know,” he says dryly, and he hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“No, you don’t, you don’t understand, Gerald, this is _bad_ \-- ” 

“Oh come on, man, you too?” he cocks an eyebrow, reaching for a sip of beer. 

“Me too, what, me too?” Arnold asks him sharply. 

“Helga had an episode after she came back to our room,” he tells him, nonchalant like it’s to be expected. Honestly, he thought it was, given their history, but maybe for once, he’s reading the room wrong. 

“She what?”

“I thought she was gonna kill me, man,” he says, mostly joking, barking out a laugh. “Honestly, if Phoebe weren’t here, she might have.” 

“But -- why?”

“I didn’t tell her about you showing up cuz I thought it wasn’t gonna be a big deal, but -- I guess I was wrong.” 

“Gerald, I was her first love, why wouldn’t it be a big deal?”

“I know, I just -- thought she was over it,” he says plainly, turning the TV back on. He starts channel surfing when he tells him, “since she’s dating again.”

“What?” Arnold asks, a little loudly. “Helga’s seeing someone?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know?” Gerald perks up, bewildered. “She’s had a girlfriend for a while.”

“A girlfriend?” he repeats incredulously. “Who?”

***

“So have you told Lila?”

Rhonda’s drumming her acrylics along the curve of her elbow. The two of them are in the backseat of her 1975 Impala. Louie, her personal assistant, is driving them back to Starside from their nail appointment across town. The sun’s starting to set and Helga’s got her eyes fixed on it, until the pointed question warrants her focus. 

“No, why?” she asks bluntly, shrugging, and Rhonda looks scandalized. Her mouth hangs open for a moment and Helga just _knows_ she’s trying to think of a non-offensive way to say whatever she’s going to say. She lets a beat of quiet pass without any gaucheness, examining her own immaculate pink manicure while her friend starts to mutter. 

“Helga, this is more-than-likely to be an...emotionally taxing week for you,” she says, and Helga snorts to herself. “Don’t you think you should tell your girlfriend to be prepared?”

“For what?” she says defensively. “I’m not gonna DUMP her for some guy I haven’t talked to in years."

“Helga, this is Arnold Shortman we’re talking about,” she says darkly, with defiance. “He’s anything but _some guy_ \-- ”

And she’s right, but if Helga affirms her, giving Rhonda the satisfaction is the least she’ll have to worry about, so she makes like she used to and deflects. Compartmentalizes. Hides. She used to be so good at that, she can’t have lost her touch completely. So she tries it. 

“Look, we dated, it didn’t work, we broke up, end of story.”

“Bullshit, you left it unfinished! You ripped the pages out!” she huffs, and Helga scoffs.

“Oh, spare me the metaphors, Princess! Point is, I moved on, he moved on, we’re different people, now -- with completely different lives.” 

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Rhonda says with a bite. “Just because you’re dating someone else doesn’t mean you moved on. Even Lila knows that.” 

She spits that last sentence with such venom, Helga wonders for a fleeting moment if she might know something she doesn’t yet, or if it was just another one of Rhonda’s stingers. Just getting under her skin. She’s always been so good at that. She guesses it’s another reason why they’d grown so close. She can do that, and it doesn’t make her angry like it would have if she were still the person she used to be. She shrugs it off, turning her eyes back out the window. 

“Look, whether I moved on or not, it doesn’t matter anymore,” she tells her. “I put it all behind me. I’m just nostalgic, that’s all. Old memories getting to me. It’s totally normal.” 

“Helga, you’re twenty-eight years old,” Rhonda says, irritably. “Aren’t you tired of lying to yourself?” 

There’s the slightest hint of a smile there, across her faultless face, knowing and smug. She knows she’s right, and that makes it worse. The only thing Helga hates more than Rhonda being right is Rhonda _knowing_ she’s right. 

Helga slumps against the window. This was going to be a long fucking week.


	2. tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arnold and helga are having _a week_ , and it's only tuesday. (i can relate)

It sounds like a joke, if he’s being honest. Helga, dating Lila. 

The concept of Helga dating someone doesn’t come as a surprise. She’s brilliant, hilarious, loyal, courageous, devoted, creative, _extremely_ hot -- he could go on. He’d be considerably _more_ shocked to find out she was single. But dating _Lila_? 

Lila Sawyer, her rival? Her sworn arch-nemesis? The girl she despised with every fiber of her being, even well after he’d made it clear he had no interest in her? He just couldn’t make sense of it. It felt...off, in a way he couldn’t explain. He thought he was just being jealous or crazy or both, until later that day.

Even with mostly everything taken care of ahead of time, the wedding party still had a few things to do before Saturday’s ceremony. Instead of their own respective bachelor parties, Gerald and Phoebe wanted to spend a night camping with everyone, so Rhonda offered her family’s lodge up the mountain. That would be tomorrow night, and there were still the fittings, the rehearsal dinner, and the like. Phoebe’s friend from college was flying in from New York, and needed to be picked up from the airport, a task Helga volunteered for that morning. She skipped out on brunch on the docks, and when they went off to scope out the trail for camping, she skipped out on that, too. 

Maybe it was paranoia, but Arnold was convinced she was avoiding him, and the lack of her presence at dinner hadn’t done anything to reassure him.

A small gathering was set up in the hotel’s eastern ballroom for the early-bird arrivals -- the parents and the wedding party. Helga was nowhere to be seen, but oddly enough, Lila had shown up, fawning over Timberly’s kids and making small talk with the Johanssens while Phoebe made the rounds to introduce her friend Kim to everyone else. Arnold certainly wasn’t having an unpleasant time catching up with Sid, but now and again, Lila would catch his eye, and something about the way she looks back at him puts him ill at ease. 

He waits for a comfortable lull in conversation to excuse himself from the table, making a beeline for the snack depot. He picks at the toast points absently, scanning the room and realizing he’s lost sight of Lila, nearly jumping out of his skin when he feels a tap at his shoulder. 

“It’s rude to stare and not say hello, you know,” she says, teasing. Her voice is light and airy, exactly the way he remembers. It’s eerie, almost. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. She moves in to hug him and he wraps his arms around her in a warm, but oddly distant hug. Their chests don’t touch, but he can smell her perfume. Same old sugary-vanilla scent, and that’s eerie, too. He coughs out a laugh.

“You look beautiful, Lila,” he tells her. He means it, she really does. Still doesn’t fuss too much with makeup, he can tell, but it’s not like she really needs it. Not a blemish in sight, no beginning signs of aging. The same constellation of freckles under her eyes. 

Her hair is different, now. It looks cute, lopped off just below her chin in a bouncy bob that makes her look much more grown-up. It’s a richer, deeper red than it used to be. She’s a little heavier than she used to be, too, a little rounder in the cheeks. It’s cute. She wriggles her nose at him.

“You’re not so unfortunate yourself, Arnold,” she quips, pinching his arm. “I had a feeling Helga had downplayed your looks.”

“Sounds like her,” he says with a smile, and he’s glad to see her share it with him. She breathes out a little laugh and pours herself a glass of punch, or whatever that is in the giant seashell bowl at the center of the table. “Is she here?”

“She’s somewhere,” she replies, without looking at him. She takes a slow sip of her drink, leaning up against the wall. Arnold leans back alongside her. He watches her watch the room for a moment, debating with himself how bold he’s actually going to be before the question just escapes him.

“When did that happen?” he asks, mouth outpacing his mind. 

Lila turns her head, facing him with a vacant expression, brown eyes depthless. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Arnold.”

“Here, how about we _not_ do this by the snack table,” he says. He glances around, jerking his head toward an unoccupied mini-table a few feet away and she follows, wordlessly. “I mean you and Helga.” 

She settles into the seat across from him, lips slowly curving upward. 

“Oh, right, I’m ever-so sorry, Arnold,” she apologizes, breathy and none-too convincing. Arnold frowns. “This must be awkward for you.”

It definitely is, but he doesn’t want to be rude, so he doesn’t say anything, and while he tries to think of something else, Lila goes on, “Perhaps it’ll comfort you to know that it’s awkward for me, too.” 

She sounds sincere, this time, making a point to meet his eyes. He leans forward, elbows on the table. 

“Is it?”

“Of course, how couldn’t it be?” she says, a bit strained. A bit sad. She looks a little defeated and a pang of guilt tugs at his heart. “You’re the only person she’s ever loved, Arnold. I can’t hope to compete with you.”

Arnold shakes his head, vigorously, panic rising in his chest as he fidgets in his seat.

“Hang on, Lila, I think you misunderstand,” he starts to explain. “I’m honestly just curious about how this came to be, I’m not asking because of some -- ulterior motive, or something.” 

And he's not, but with the way this conversation is going, he could hardly blame her for not believing him. “Oh, Arnold, ever the gentleman."

“I mean it, Lila,” he tries to reassure her, but to no avail, if the emptiness in her eyes is any sign. “I didn’t come here to -- to sweep Helga away, or anything.”

“I know you didn’t, Arnold,” she says, quietly, and it’s so affirming that he has to go with it. He draws his brows together in a worried knit, wondering just what on earth is actually going on when she adds, “You don’t need to, is the thing.”

“Lila, you sound so resigned,” he says, honestly. She’s making no effort to hide it, he doesn’t need to humor her. “I don’t understand, are things not going well between you? Aren’t you happy?”

Lila smiles again, emptily, helplessly, white-white teeth flashing for a moment before her face falls. She’s silent for a painful moment, looking past him. Her jaw tenses and he swallows thickly, regretting opening his mouth at all and feeling like a prize asshole. He’s about to apologize for being so invasive when the light comes back into her eyes like someone flipped a switch in her head. She perks up to stand, shuffling forward to meet her late-arrival girlfriend. 

Arnold stiffens, watching Helga wrap her arms around Lila, kissing the side of her face briefly before hovering over the table in a short, ill-fitting little green dress. The collar comes up high on her neck and the sleeves puff out, trimmed with ruffles. A loosely tied ribbon hanging around her throat. 

A little green dress, likely something plucked straight from Lila’s old wardrobe. Arnold can’t think of a color that would fit her less. He frowns.

“Hey, sorry,” she addresses Lila. “The inspection on the yacht took a little longer than I thought.”

“That’s alright,” Lila tells her. “How’s the boat?”

Helga shrugs, nodding a “hey” to Arnold, and he feels his fingers wiggle in an awkward wave hello. “It’s fine. Rhonda wants us to get the chairs and shit tomorrow, but it might rain so I don’t see the point, but.”

Lila makes some sympathetic face at her and gestures at her empty chair. “Here, why don’t you sit? I’ll go grab you something to eat.” 

“You sure?” she blinks at her, but Lila shakes her head, already making for the opposite direction.

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” she smiles and tentatively, cautiously sits down. “So what were _you two_ talking about?” 

She says flatly, a slight waver in her voice like she’s trying hard to sound confident and relaxed. Maybe she’s just exhausted, but Arnold would like to think he knows her, that she hasn’t changed that much. He clears his throat, taking a bite of cucumber sandwich. 

“Oh, nothing really, nothing.”

“Your face sure is red for ‘nothing,’” she jabs at him, smirking. “Listen, I know you liked her first, Arnoldo, but all’s fair in love and war.”

He has to laugh. He rolls his eyes, noting the way her shoulders relax. She’s not picking at her fingernails or biting her lip. He makes himself smile back.

“How long?”

“Huh?” she lifts an eyebrow.

Arnold jerks his head toward the back end of the ballroom, where all the main dishes are set up. He can see Lila chatting with Timberly and Kim back there. “Have you been…?”

“Oh, right,” Helga gets it after a beat. The grin vanishes from her face. “Um. A while. We were sort-of seeing each other in high school, but then she moved, and then. I finished college and we both wound up in Hillwood again, so. A couple years now.”

“Wow,” he breathes, and just reflexively, he asks, “Do your parents…?”

“No, God, no,” Helga blurts out, shaking her head. “No way -- Olga knows. I told Olga. She was thrilled, obviously, 'cuz that’s just Olga, but, no. Bob and Miriam don’t know anything.” 

“Are they doing okay?”

“They’re fine. Divorced,” she says, bluntly. She looks tired just at the mention of them and he feels bad for asking. It’s clear she hasn’t spoken about them in a while. Her eyes look far away, just briefly. She lets out a long exhale. “That was...phew, right after I turned eighteen.” 

“How’s Miriam?” he goes on, hopefully, and she smiles again.

“Better,” she says. Her voice lifts just slightly. “I don’t see her much, but. She’s a lot better. She asks about you, sometimes.” 

Arnold perks up, shifting in his chair.

“She does?”

“Yeah. Never remembers your goddamn name, but she asks. Usually around the holidays.” 

“Maybe I’ll come say hi over Christmas.” 

“She’d like that,” she says, very quietly, and Arnold has the inkling that she’s not referring to her mother. His heart trembles, a weightless wisp. The longer he looks at her face, the lighter it feels. From the way she’s looking back at him, he’s made to believe her heart is much the same, granted wings the moment they met eyes in the lobby yesterday. 

A childish hope, yet he can’t stop himself from holding onto it. 

Arnold would be content to sit there and stare at her all night, but of course, Helga is still Helga, and she’s never allowed more than a minute of quiet tension to pass between them ever in their lives. She clears her throat a little obnoxiously and points a finger at something over his shoulder. 

“So you won’t come back for a ten-year reunion, but you’ll come back for this?”

Gerald and Phoebe are canoodling just ten feet away, giggling and making out like teenagers, like nobody’s looking. Jamie-O’s daughter makes a face, and then a loud proclamation of “eww, gross”, subjecting herself to her uncle’s wrath in the form of lame growling noises and his arms scooping her up into the air. He holds the seven-year-old in one arm and pulls his almost-wife in close with the other, and Arnold feels his insides melting to putty.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says, dripping affection. He can’t see Helga’s face, but he knows she’s pouting. She laughs, though. A gentle sound.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.” 

“It’s wild, isn’t it?” he says, wistfully. “It feels like only yesterday they were holding hands under the table at Slausen’s.” 

“Yeah, and now look at them, white picket fence and names picked out for their kids and everything,” Helga says softly. She sounds almost rueful. “Despite everything, they worked it out. They were meant to be.” 

“People used to say that about us, you know.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but out it goes, so quiet it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But yes, it seems Helga is still Helga, even pushing thirty, and she hears every hem and haw he makes. It’s times like these where he’s almost certain it must be a curse. 

“Wh-What?” 

But he would be saved from having to lie on the spot about the stupid thing he’s just said, because Lila comes shuffling back with a full plate of grilled salmon and a bottle of Yahoo! for her partner. 

“Hey! I’m ever-so sorry, Helga, I ran into Kim at the bar and we just couldn’t stop talking.” 

Helga looks panicked, face drained of color as she gets up from her seat, taking the food.

“That’s okay, um -- I think I’m just gonna head up and eat in the room, actually, I suddenly don’t --” her eyes flicker to Arnold’s, and he feels about as manic as she looks -- “ -- don’t feel so great.”

Lila winds her brows together, going a little pale herself. “Are you alright?”

“Y-Yeah, yeah, just --” she lies, obviously, Arnold can tell. “I just have a headache, that’s all. Just tired. Y’know, from all the -- running around today.”

“I can walk you,” Arnold stands up, talking without thinking again. Lila looks uncomfortable and Helga looks anywhere but at him and he swallows, hard. “Both of you, back up to the room, if…”

“It’s fine, Arnold, really,” she says gently, but it’s insistent, final. “Probably just didn’t eat enough all day, I’ll be fine. C’mon, Lila, let’s...let’s go catch up on Unsolved. Um. Goodnight, Arnold.” 

“Goodnight, Helga, Lila,” he says. Helga doesn’t look back, but Lila offers a weak smile from over her shoulder, her hands rubbing circles on her girlfriend’s back as they walk in step toward the double doors. He hears some noise of judgement behind him and turns to find Gerald with an extra beer in hand, grinning knowingly.

“What’d you get yourself into this time?”

“You saw that, huh?” he says, reluctantly grinning back.

“I see everything.” Gerald steals a sandwich off his plate. “Those two again, huh? Some shit really don’t change.” 

“Gerald -- you’d tell me if I was crazy, right?” Arnold asks his best friend. Uselessly, because he already knows, but he likes the assurance. He smirks back at him. 

“Course I would.”

“There’s something... _off_ about them, right? Helga and Lila. Like, it’s weird.”

“Weird?” Gerald parrots him, munching on the food. “Course it’s fuckin’ weird, it’s Helga and Lila. I mean, it's not because they're -- we’re all a little _curved_ in this group, you know what I mean.”

Arnold chortles. He knows.

“But no, yeah, you're right, somethin’ weird, there.” 

“So I’m not crazy?”

“Oh no, you’re definitely crazy,” he laughs, still with food in his mouth. “But not ‘cause of that. No, the vibes were always off between those two. Which doesn’t make sense, because for all intents and purposes, they’re a good match.” 

“A good match?” Arnold repeats him, and Gerald shrugs, nonchalant. 

“Yeah. They look out for each other, support each other. Treat each other real good. But no, you’re right, they’re a little off. I can tell, Phoebe can tell...pretty sure they both know it, but they don’t talk about it.” 

“Gerald,” he says, concerned. “What are you saying?”

“C’mon man, you can’t be serious.”

“Gerald,” he almost whines, almost laughing. Gerald’s almost laughing too, and it’s a little funny. Familiar. 

“You’re on your own with this one, boy.” 

“C’mon Gerald, you’re my best friend,” he pokes him. 

“Yeah, but you’re a big boy now,” he says, patting him on the back. “Time to handle your girl trouble yourself.” 

“You’re the worst,” Arnold jokes, beaming at him. Gerald winks.

“I know. C’mon, I got something I _can_ help you with.” 

They lean in close, wiggle their thumbs together in their age-old handshake, and practically race each other to the cocktail bar.

***

_Thunk, thunk, thunk_. Like somebody’s thrashing their whole body against the walls out there. A brief series of knocks, and another _thunk_.

Lila is still. A heavy sleeper, God bless her. The girl could sleep through a _bomb_ going off. Helga’s not so lucky. She groans awake, careful not to stir her as she slides out of the bed. 

Nightshirt hanging off her shoulder, Helga stomps to the door in her boy-shorts, hissing sharply, “Hey! My girlfriend is sleeping, you fu -- ” and then stops short, looking down at a slightly disheveled, very drunk Arnold.

“A-Arnold?” she squeaks, dropping to her knees to look him over more carefully. He looks dazed, trying to focus on her, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes open.

“Whoops,” he mumbles, half-smiling. He hiccups. “S-sorry, wrong door.” 

“Are you okay?” she asks on instinct -- _duh_ , he’s not okay. He can hardly stand up. He doesn’t look like he’s gotten sick on himself, thankfully, just a little tousled. His hair is all mussed. 

“‘M okay, Helga,” he drawls. “Just a little tipsy. You should -- you should go back to bed.”

“And leave you to stumble down the hallway drunk?” she barks, not even bothering to whisper anymore. “Do you even know where your room is?”

“It’s one-two-three.” He answers like he’s proud of himself. She lowers her eyelids.

“That would be on the first floor, _Arnold_ , this is the third.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Must have read the numbers backward.”

“You are _such_ a football head.” Helga grabs her room key off the side table and slides her feet into the slippers by the door, shutting it behind her. She grabs his arm. “Come on.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Helping you get downstairs,” she replies, fighting to keep her voice even. He may be drunk, but under the faint scent of alcohol, he still smells good, like sandalwood and the ocean and a burning campfire. Obscenely familiar. Like home. She clears her throat. “Is the elevator okay? Or will that make you dizzy?”

“I think it would make me throw up.” He laughs a little, and she shakes her head, unable to fight a smile.

“Well, maybe you _need_ to throw up, but we can hold off on that,” she laughs a little too, and then, against her better judgement, she hooks an arm under his knees, grabbing hold of his shoulders. “Think you can hang on?”

“Helga, wait, I -- ” he protests, but she’s already hoisted him into the air. With ease. “Whoa, you can lift me.”

“Very observant of you, jungle boy,” she grunts, but she can feel a blush coming on, hot and intense. He’s a little heavy -- he’s built a bit more dense than Gerald, but he's fairly easy to carry. She’s carried pretty much everyone in the friend group before (with the exception of Harold, but she’ll get there one day), so she’s not worried about dropping him. Not for a lack of strength, anyway. She’s doing fine keeping her balance, all things considered, totally not relishing at all in the fact that Arnold is staring at her biceps. 

She hip-checks the door to a stairwell and focuses on her footing, careful. Trying not to ponder the way Arnold is positively trembling in her arms. He’s a little sweaty, his cheeks a brilliant shade of fuchsia, but rationality reminds her it’s because he’s a little shit-faced. She grunts when she reaches the first floor. 

“How much did you drink?” she asks off-hand. He’s making that face like he wants to say something, but she won’t let him have it. He can thank her later -- if he remembers any of this. She should hope he doesn’t.

“Not a lot,” he says, but then, sheepishly, “Maybe. A bottle.”

“Of what, straight Jack?” she guesses, like it matters. A straight bottle of anything could mess him up -- he’d always been a lightweight. Him and Eugene. Only difference there was that Arnold usually stopped before becoming violently ill. Arnold shrugs, his head lolling against her shoulder.

“I’unno. Wh’ever they were serving at Jamie-O’s table.” 

“Pfft. No wonder,” she grunts, heat flaring up her neck. Her eyes dart across the door plates, searching for the right number. Thankfully, he’s quiet while she looks, until he hiccups, cooing like a toddler.

“You’re so strong, Helga.” 

Her heart races, and she chews on her lip. In a desperate attempt to keep calm, she jokes with him. “Maybe you’re just light, Arnold.” 

“Don’t be -- _hic_ \-- modest, Pataki, you’re the strongest woman I ever knew.” 

“What an honor,” she murmurs, ears burning hot as she finds the right room. Gently, keeping him steady, she sets him back down on his feet, and he looks so woeful she almost feels bad. “Think this is your stop, Shortman.” 

“Thanks, _hic_ \-- Helga.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says. She watches him swipe the key card and stumble face first onto the floor as soon as he gets the door open. “Whoa, take it easy, head-boy!” 

“S-Sorry, Helga,” he says, waving her off. He’s slow to get back up, but he does get there. “Just kinda -- lost my footing.” 

He’s standing up now, gripping a table to do so, but standing. And he’s back in his room, safe and sound -- probably about to be sick, but in his room safely nonetheless. Helga did what she meant to do and now her work here was done, but she doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t go back to the stairwell, back to her room like she should. 

Instead, she kicks the door closed behind her and grabs at his sides, steering him toward the bathroom.

“You’re gonna twist your ankle like that, you dingbat.” 

“What are you doing?” he asks. He sounds more hopeful than inquisitive and that should make her uncomfortable, should make her upset. 

It doesn’t.

“Making sure you don’t drown yourself in the shower, genius,” she explains, innocently though she feels anything but. 

Arnold’s hotel room is smaller, but it’s set up much the same as hers, with the same layout in the bathroom. The shower is a stand-in, a box, essentially, with a glass door and a ledge. He can sit and let the hot water run over him, and she won’t have to worry about him slipping and breaking his face. His gorgeously sculpted face. She bites her tongue. 

“Get in,” she instructs him. “I’ll wait out here.”

“Wait, Helga?” he asks, grabbing her arm. His touch is searing. She whirls around. 

“What?”

“Can you, um,” he starts to ask, but falls short of words. He fidgets with the knot around his neck, his collar open and loose. Helga would roll her eyes if she didn’t think he was so cute.

“What, you can’t untie your tie?” 

“Please?” he begs her, pitifully. She concedes so quickly it’s embarrassing. 

“Jesus, Arnold. Come here.”

She’s already established that she’s taller than him, but this close, it becomes more apparent. It’s not a very sizable difference, hardly noticeable -- but this close, she thinks she can determine a more exact measurement. Maybe an inch. Their eyes aren’t quite level. She has to tilt her head down the slightest bit. She thinks of a time when she had to bend down to kiss him and her fingers start trembling, but she works the knot loose. She snatches the tie off his neck and tosses it on the floor.

“There, you’re free,” she says, but Arnold is frowning helplessly. He furrows his brow, swinging his arms at his sides and whining. “What, you forget how buttons work, too?” 

“Nooo, I just. My arms are so tired. I feel like lead.” 

“You are so useless,” she scolds him, her face scorching hot as she works the buttons of his dress-shirt undone. She moves quickly, struggling a little with the length of her nails. His breathing is getting faster. She can faintly feel the heat of his skin beneath the fabric. 

“There,” she grunts, shuffling out of the bathroom. “Go in, I won’t peek.” 

She really shouldn’t have said that. She knows he likes to play along, to tease. He always did. He was always really good at flirting, especially when it came to weaponizing it against her. It’s no different now. He’s fiddling with the buckle on his belt and she lets their eyes meet in the mirror, just for a fraction of a second. 

“I don’t mind,” he says. His eyes are droopy and his voice is dark and she’s really asking for it, now. 

“Stop that!” she hisses. “Just go wash up, okay? Scream if you need me.” 

“Aaaah,” his voice rings out feebly, and Helga smiles against her will.

“Very funny, Football Head. I’ll be out here.”

She shouldn’t be. She doesn’t even have to be. If he can successfully manage to get in the shower, he can’t be that fucked up. Besides, he’s a grown ass man, he doesn’t need a babysitter. He’s just a little drunk, and he’s been drunk before. Nothing he can’t handle on his own. It’s bad enough she brought him -- _carried_ him down here -- well, no, that wasn’t bad. She would have done it no matter who it was. But this part. Waiting in his room while he showers. That’s toeing the line. 

She should be back in bed. With her girlfriend. It’s almost two in the morning and they have a long day ahead. A long rest of the week. That’s enough adolescent behavior for tonight, enough indulging nostalgia. 

That’s all it is, anyway. Just nostalgia. The longing for a familiar time. A simpler time. Harder, but simpler. The before-time, she’s come to call it, before she made her own bed to lie in. Arnold belongs in the before-time.

The door to the bathroom creaks open, jolting her from her thoughts. Arnold emerges, dripping wet still, only a skimpy towel around his hips.

“Whoa, whoa whoa whoa, hey!” she exclaims, shielding her eyes. “What are you thinking, Arnold?!” 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, a little startled himself. He chortles. “I forgot you were here.”

“Gee, thanks,” she grunts. She makes for the door, huffing and puffing. “Well if you’re okay, then I’ll just -- ”

She’s got it cracked open ajar, but Arnold’s hand is around her wrist. She holds her breath. His eyes are a little red, dark circles beneath them. A pleading look. “Helga...don’t go.”

“It’s late, Arnold, I need to get some sleep,” she says, hardly combating him, making no move to wrench away. He inches closer. She closes the door.

“Just sleep here,” he says. His voice is low and heavy. 

“That’s a bad idea, Arnold,” she almost whispers, looking hard into his eyes. He tilts his head.

“Why.”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“Not because you have a girlfriend?” 

Helga’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Not a wise topic of conversation right now, Arnold.” 

“Then we won’t talk, then,” he says.

“Arnold,” she starts, firmly, sternly, “I have to get back to my room. To Lila.” 

“Do you love her?” 

The air goes cold in her lungs. Helga pulls away, then, her hand back on the knob of the door. She looks down at her feet. She hopes he’s still too inebriated to tell she’s taking too long to answer that. 

“Yes,” is her cold reply, lifting her head to look him fully in the face. The word passing through her lips seems to sober him up some, as the lines around his mouth go slack. His shoulders sag. 

“Oh,” is all he says. He doesn’t know where to look, suddenly, like he’s suddenly no longer allowed to look at her. Helga chews on her lip. 

“Goodnight, Arnold,” she almost whispers. He doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t wait for him to decide he wants to, she just leaves before the tears behind her eyes can drip down. She feels terrible for lying.

Arnold belongs in the before-time. The harder, darker time, when she made the choice that set up the rest of her life, the thing that made her who she is today. Making friends with her regrets is the only way she knows how to live with them. No one she knows has ever let go of their demons, and she’s not the only one who keeps hers on a leash, but. We get what we deserve, she reminds herself. _I got what I deserve_.

She pokes the button for “up” on the elevator, wondering how much longer it will take before she starts to believe it.

***

She thinks she’s home-free, at first. The room is still pitch dark when she gets back, and it doesn’t seem Lila has stirred at all. She kicks off her slippers and slinks back under the covers, and Lila’s warmth radiates off of her. She calms herself, matching her breathing with Lila’s, and for a fleeting moment she’s sure she’s about to drift off, until.

“Helga?” 

“Lila, you’re awake?” she says softly, opening her eyes. Lila’s are still shut.

“Where were you,” she asks, drowsy and mumbling. 

“Just -- downstairs,” she says in a small voice. “Arnold’s drunk. Just helped him get back to his room.”

“Just helped?” 

“Yes, Lila, just helped,” is her short reply, guilt and shame slithering around her heart and squeezing it. She hadn’t done anything wrong, sure, but. Lila knows her better than that. When she doesn’t move to hold her, Helga turns over, eyes still stinging. She relaxes for long enough to maybe fall asleep, toeing the edge of it, but she’d get no such peace. 

“He’s still in love with you.” Lila would say. Like a blunt statement of fact. When Helga doesn’t say anything in return, she adds, “You know it, don’t you.” 

“No, he’s not,” she denies it. She doesn’t know why she bothers at this point, if Lila’s already so resigned, but she can’t just not fight it. So she continues to commit to the bit, trying her hardest to sound disinterested and distant about it. “He might think he is, but he isn’t. He doesn’t know me anymore. Not like you do.”

“What difference does that make?” Lila asks her. It’s an honest question, a smart one. A question of great importance, because they both know it makes no difference at all, but again, she’s committed. 

“A world of,” she says, terse and short. Her girlfriend falls quiet, and after another agonizingly long minute, she asks just one more thing. One more thing to bug her till the end of the week.

“Is just knowing enough?”

Helga wouldn’t answer that one. The silence is deafening between them. Sleep would not befall her for what would feel like hours. 

It's barely Wednesday.


	3. wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “so can we move along with some semblance of normalcy now, or are we gonna keep dancing around each other like the floor is lava?” 
> 
> arnold smiles. it’s funny, really. she says that, knowing full well that’s exactly what they’re going to do for the rest of this week. a game, that’s all it is, just like they used to play. and that’s fine, because maybe she’s forgotten, but he’s really, really good at it.

Arnold would wake up feeling like roadkill. His headache is numbing, splitting in a way he’s sure could birth the goddess Athena. He’s been knocked out for hours, but it hardly feels like enough. It’s eight-twelve AM. He groans and rolls over in the too-big bed, debating whether or not he feels human enough to get ready for breakfast at Giorno’s across the lake, when suddenly, he remembers -- 

Helga. 

Helga helped him back here last night. _Oh, shit._

He hops into his sweatpants, pulling a raglan shirt over his head -- _shit_. He can’t remember much, but he does remember asking her to sleep with him, and hoo boy, that was a no-no. A bad thing. He regrets the thing he did. (only on principle, but -- _no, no_. he tries to shake the thought like a bothersome fly.) 

His heart aches almost as badly as his head. _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_ , he thinks, reuniting with Helga. He tries to shake that thought, too, but easier said than done. 

Honestly, what did he really expect, coming back here after all these years, unannounced? They’re pushing thirty now. All grown up with their own separate lives. They’re different people, now -- not those little kids anymore. 

It was stupid and selfish of him to hope she hadn’t moved on, just because he never did. His childish dreams of Helga Pataki running back into his arms were just that, dreams.

(unless.)

She had _carried_ him to his room. Held him in her arms. Sure, he’d been out of commission, but still, she _held_ him. So close and tender, like he was something to be protected, and then she stayed to make sure he was okay. Anyone could have helped guide him back, but she stayed just to make sure he was alright. Helga’s kind at heart, truly, but she’s also impatient, and having patience enough to deal with just a drunk old friend just wasn’t in her nature. 

He sighs, stepping onto the lift to the third floor.

It’s a pretty big “unless”. She said she loved her girlfriend, after all. He doesn’t remember most of their conversation, but he does remember that. Whether or not it’s true is none of his business. He’s got a responsibility right now, anyway, so he knocks on the door he hopes is hers and prays that Lila won’t answer.

God or someone else Up There must have heard him, because Helga opens the door, a sly grin plastered on her face when he says hello.

“You’re up early.”

“Hey,” he breathes, and then asks, “Is Lila here too?”

She leans against the doorframe. “Nope. Downstairs already. Up with the sun and all that.” 

“Can I come in?”

Something akin to panic crosses her face, but only for a moment before she says, “Sure.” 

It’s much bigger here than in his room. Two beds, but she must be sharing one with Lila. Her dress from last night is draped over the other one, powders and lotions and other makeup bottles strewn across a pile of clothing. A pink hardcover suitcase, open next to an older brown one with leather straps. It smells good in here, like flowers. There’s the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. It makes him homesick.

“Helga, about yesterday,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t worry about it. I would have done it for anyone.” 

“Right, but that’s not what I…” he struggles, raking a hand through his untidy hair. She sits at the foot of the empty bed, the one she’d slept in (with Lila, he reminds himself), chewing at her lip. Picking at her fingers. Her hair’s pulled up in a sleek ponytail, a little green ribbon tied in it. Her shirt looks a little too big for her, but her leggings are tight. She looks more ready for weight-lifting than sitting in a diner and he wonders when she got an interest in working out. Wonders what else he’s missed. He chews his lip, too. “Helga, I really shouldn’t have…”

“It’s fine, Arnold,” she says, hurriedly. She sounds a little distressed. She rushes through her words, rubbing her left arm. An old nervous habit. “I’m just glad you didn’t get sick, or hurt or something -- no idea what Jamie-O put in those drinks, y’know?”

“No, I mean…” he says, looking harder into her face. She looks a little pink in the cheeks and he has to focus harder on what he’s apologizing for. “I mean that I shouldn’t have asked you to stay with me. That was inappropriate and disrespectful, and I’m so, so sorry -- ” 

“It’s okay, Arnold. You were drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse,” he says firmly, knitting his brows together. She gets up with a huff and a flail of her arms, but he follows her to the bathroom. She grabs a stick of lip balm and talks to him in the mirror as she applies it.

“Arnold, thank you, but, really, you can let it go. It's fine.” 

If he were smarter, or less selfish -- or both and other things, he would have let it end there. He would check his pocket for his wallet and ask her if she’s ready to meet everyone downstairs, let it roll off his shoulders and let it be --

But he’s not. He is who he is, and at his core, Arnold is curious, and there’s just something in the way he can feel that there’s something missing, something she’s not telling him. He can’t ignore it. So he keeps talking.

“Listen, Helga -- I know me being here is probably the last thing you expected, and I wanted to apologize for that, too,” he continues. “I should have let you know, or tried harder to make sure somebody else told you.” 

She smiles at his reflection, cocking an eyebrow. “You say that like I was in desperate need of a warning, or something.”

“It just feels unfair,” he says sincerely, searching her face for any telltale signs and of course they’re there. She likes to think she’s so grown up, so different, but he remembers. The way her bottom lip twitches the slightest bit when she’s lying. She picks at her fingers again. “I knew that you would be here, and I came prepared, and you -- ”

“Look, Arnold, it’s not that deep,” she says, a little too loudly, a little too sharply. She sounds just slightly like her old self, like the little girl who tormented him. Her nasally snarl goes right to his head and he’s that same curious little boy again, wondering why she feels the need to hide. “You don’t have to apologize -- the past is the past! Honestly, after the way I dumped you, I deserve a metaphorical smack in the face, so -- consider us even.” 

Walls. There’s always been these walls between them. He’d thought dating her would have brought them down, but when you date as children, you hardly make a dent in them. He’d tried to climb up and over and wound up flat on his back. He’d tried searching for a door, but then he couldn’t find a key. No little space to fit between, no hole big enough to slither through, so he started pushing. And the harder he pushed, the stronger they became, until one day he pushed too hard.

He asked too many questions. He prodded and pried too much. _He_ was too much. 

He doesn’t want to make the same mistake. He doesn’t want to lose her all over again, so he concedes. 

“Even, right,” he says softly. “We’re even.” 

“Great,” she smiles. It’s half-hearted and weak, and she talks hurriedly like she can’t wait to get away. “So can we move along with some semblance of normalcy now, or are we gonna keep dancing around each other like the floor is lava?” 

Arnold smiles. It’s funny, really. She says that, knowing full well that’s exactly what they’re going to do for the rest of this week. A game, that’s all it is, just like they used to play. And that’s fine, because maybe she’s forgotten, but he’s really, really good at it. And if that’s really what she wants to do, he can oblige. Happily.

He’s going to win, anyway. Maybe she wants him to. He’ll let himself believe that. 

So he laughs, calling a truce, for now. As a courtesy. “Yeah, we can be normal.” 

“Great,” she says brightly. “Now, I don’t know about you, but if I’m eating on Rhonda Lloyd’s dime, I’m gonna milk it for all it’s worth, so -- you coming to breakfast?”

She’s already halfway out the door. He pats his pocket for a wallet check and nods. “Yep.”

***

Breakfast is loud. Giorno’s is on the outskirts of the bay, nothing nearby save for a gas station and a particularly cursed-looking gift shop, so the group has the diner basically to themselves. Rhonda is visibly uncomfortable, not having eaten in a place like this since their old Waffle House nights in high school, but everyone else is enjoying it, talking animatedly about their hotel stay so far and reminiscing on old times.

Sid and Stinky show up about halfway through. Both of them are over the moon to see Arnold, gushing about how excited everyone else is going to be to see him. They mention something about Eugene flying in from California. Harold’s bringing his daughter later and Phoebe looks excited, apparently Sarah's never met Nadine’s kid. It’s weird, her friends having kids, Helga thinks as she sips her coffee. Sure, only a couple of them do -- a shite economy and the fact that most of them are either flamingly gay or completely uninterested will do that -- but it’s still weird. Even weirder is the concept of their kids being friends. It positively _ages_ her.

Sid passes his phone around the table. As god-father, he’s got a few pictures of Sarah Berman from her latest school photos. She’s got bushy brown hair and a toothy grin. Looks almost nothing like Harold. Call that a blessing, Stinky jokes, and Rhonda makes a suspiciously sour face. Helga glances sideways at Lila, who’s cooing over the photo with a little pout. She loves kids. 

Helga hadn’t wanted kids until she knew Arnold wanted them. It was never a thing they talked about -- they were so young when they dated, of course they hadn’t -- but he would mention off-handedly that he wanted to raise a family one day. He wanted at least three kids, so none of them would have to be lonely in case anything happened to him. (as if anything would.) He’d be the perfect father, she’d thought. Still thinks so. (still thinks he’d be the only person she’d ever want to have kids with, but that ship has sailed.)

Lila sighs next to her and she feels a little guilty. She’s willing to give her a lot of things, but she’s not sure children would be among them. She thinks Lila knows that, but she wonders sometimes if it’s really okay. They don’t talk much as they finish up breakfast.

The girls have to go pick up their dresses, so Rhonda calls for a limo to drive them back into the city after they get the check. Phoebe’s already got hers stored in Rhonda’s suite, but she tags along anyway, leaving the guys behind to pick up Eugene when he lands and lollygag with whatever they want until the big lunch later. Lila’s not in the wedding party, but Phoebe hates leaving anyone out, so she crawls next to Helga in the limo, strangely quiet the entirety of the highway ride. Her hand is limp in Helga’s.

Much to Rhonda’s chagrin, Phoebe had chosen green for their attendants’ color scheme. A flattering, pastel-spring green, but green nonetheless, and although Rhonda could have easily hung the fact that she was paying for everything over her head, she didn’t even try to dissuade her from it and kept her mouth shut for the whole of the planning process. A true development in character. (it didn’t mean she couldn’t roll her eyes and grit her teeth at the salon, though.)

Timberly and Kim don’t seem to mind it at all. With a mural of colorful tattoos up and down her arms and shiny black hair, Kim would look good in anything, and Timberly’s favorite color is green, so it felt like a natural decision. Phoebe hadn’t agonized over it. Helga herself didn’t care, either -- she’d wear a potato sack if it made her best friend happy on her wedding day, but as she turns around in the ornate looking-glass, she thinks she kind of likes it. 

As maid of honor, her dress is styled a bit differently, darker than the others. A sleek, rich shade of forest pine. The other girls have cap-sleeves, but Helga’s dress drapes off her shoulders, with a lower cut in the neckline. Lila had picked it out. 

“How does it feel?” 

Helga turns around, smoothing the fabric around the dip in her waist. “Could be taken in a little more, but it’s fine.”

Lila steps closer, bunching the sateen cotton in her hands and looking her over. “We could ask them to fix it for you. It wouldn’t take very long.”

“It’s fine,” Helga says. It’s only a little loose, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t hug her completely snugly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.” 

“Wouldn’t you rather feel your best?” Lila asks her, monotonous and dry. She avoids her eyes, her expression dull and almost vacant. Helga scoffs.

“I’m only gonna wear it for one day, Lila, it’s not a big deal -- what’s with you?”

“Nothing,” she insists.

“Bullshit, you’re acting weird,” she says, scooping up her dress. She sits on the platform and pulls Lila down with her. “What’s eating you?” 

The redhead makes one of her Faces, the one she makes when she wants to say something she knows will make her upset. Her brows are drawn together and her forehead wrinkles and her eyes are glassy, and she’s wearing that helpless smile that twitches. Helga’s only seen this face twice before -- once, when she had to tell her that the lizard passed away while she was away with Rhonda for a weekend, and second, after the first time Helga said she was over Arnold Shortman. 

“No you’re not,” she’d said, with that feeble smile. It was the night Helga asked her out for real, to be girlfriends. Helga was upset, because she was right, of course, but she’d insisted it didn’t matter. He’d left. He was gone, and he was never coming home. It was hopeless. She’d wanted to move on. When Lila asked if she’d meant it, she did. She never lied about that.

_But wanting to move on and actually moving on are two different things_. God, she hates it when Rhonda’s right. 

Lila opens her mouth to finally say something, but the Princess herself interrupts them, bursting into the room with panicked eyes and Phoebe shuffling behind her.

“It’ll be okay, Rhonda, I’m certain we can figure it out,” she mutters. She looks a little frazzled herself, and then suddenly Helga’s attention swings away from her partner. 

“What the hell?” 

“The videographer just bailed,” Rhonda whines. “Ugh! What a prick! He took the down payment last week, and now he’s ghosting me!”

“Oh, shit,” Helga winces. Phoebe makes a strained face, forehead creasing.

“I’m so sorry, Rhonda, I know it was really expensive -- ”

“I don’t care about the money, Phoebe, I care about your wedding photos! I have like, a day to find someone else -- ”

In true Phoebe fashion, she waves her hands, shoulders stiff as she mutters, “I can easily ask one of our friends if they’d be willing to take our photos, Rhonda, I’m sure we can sort it out -- ”

“I’m oh-too certain Thad will be bringing his equipment,” Lila says casually. Helga watches the light leave Rhonda’s eyes and snickers. 

Curly had originally offered to do the camera work for the wedding, but when compensation came up, they’d fought. Something about how he’d never asked Rhonda to pay for shoots before, so why would he now, and of course that turned into maybe-he-just-wouldn’t-shoot-with-her-at-all anymore -- and the ball kept rolling. They hadn’t spoken in two weeks. Phoebe tells Rhonda she’ll take care of it, she’s the bride after all, and that seems to placate her long enough for them to finish up and ride back to Starside. 

Lila is still oddly quiet, chewing the skin around her fingers on the way back. Whatever it is that’s bothering her, Helga wouldn’t soon find out -- more guests are arriving, and they’ve got food to help set up.

***

Arnold tags along for the ride when Sid goes to pick up Eugene. Stinky and Gerald invite him to lounge around the poolside before things get busy, but he finds he’s too anxious to keep still, so he latches onto the distraction.

Sid plays his old music for him in the car, recounting all the old concerts and gigs he’d missed over the years. The band is still active; himself, Stinky, and occasionally Helga making up Mauve Storm, infamous on social media thanks to a cover of Cozier’s _Take Me to Church_ that went viral. It’s been five years, Sid tells him, but they still get asked to play that song whenever they perform. They never do, not unless Helga agrees to lend her voice.

“I never knew she sang,” Arnold says, staring ahead at the road, eyes unfocused. Sid grins out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, we did a few choir shows, way back when, but.” 

“We had to strong-arm her into it,” Sid admits. “She’s gotta be in the right mood. She’ll play guitar for us any time, but ask her to sing on the wrong day, and…”

He laughs, sticking his right arm through the open window. The cooling system in his car is faulty, he’d explained. Go figure, since the station wagon’s about as old as he is, but Arnold can hardly imagine him driving anything else. He diverts the topic, asking him about work, about living with Stinky, their plans for the future. Sid bartends at a club downtown and Stinky works at a record store. They play shows from time to time, at coffee shops and lounges, hole-in-the-wall places. Sid does a lot of video editing for Gerald’s channel -- short films that Arnold’s watched whenever he’s had an internet connection. It’s a simple, modest life he enjoys, and Arnold’s heart swells for him. After everything he’d gone through -- drugs, shitty relationships, hardships -- he deserves his happy, quiet life. 

_Sid + Stink_. He thinks about their names written in the concrete and wonders if it were an omen. Sid seems to think so. 

They drive into the pick-up lane, and then he sees who must be Eugene, rolling toward them in a wheelchair with a small Corgi in his lap. Arnold’s heart seizes. He looks great; neatly trimmed beard and mop of flaming red hair. He beams something fierce when he recognizes Arnold.

“The saint himself!” he exclaims, letting Sid help him into the car. The dog barks, excitedly. “Easy, easy Henry -- gosh, Arnold, what a surprise!” 

“It’s great to see you, Eugene,” he beams at him, heart softening. He looks considerably at Sid, who looks a little apologetic, forgetting he hadn’t already known. Eugene chuckles in the backseat, scratching his nose. 

“Sorry, must be a little jarring, huh?” He says, gesturing at the wheelchair folded up next to him. 

“What happened?” asks Arnold. 

“It was years ago,” Sid starts to explain as they merge onto the highway. “Back in college. Doctors still don’t really know what’s up. He just doesn’t do so well on his feet, anymore.” 

Arnold frowns, his gut wrenching, but Eugene’s very Eugene about it, waving it off with a lackadaisical smile. “It’s not so bad, Arnold. I don’t even need it all the time. Besides, it hasn’t stopped me from doing everything I wanted to!” 

He tells him all about his boyfriend and his dog, his time studying theatre at Hillwood Community College, and the movement for more representation in media for those with disabilities. He'd helped with the formation of a significant community in LA for actors and writers like himself, and now lives in a house with other content creators who work together and support each other, doing freelance work. He just landed a role in a new sitcom premiering in the spring, and the excitement has him bursting at the seams. His laughter is contagious, filling Arnold’s heart to the brim with affection. 

“We were supposed to start filming this week, but I just couldn’t miss this!” he says brightly. Sid parks them back at the hotel and Arnold helps Eugene get situated, grinning as he goes on while Sid grabs his things. “All of our friends, back together for the first time in years -- and now you’re here, Arnold. It really feels totally complete!” 

“Thanks, Eugene,” he says. It’s insufficient, but Eugene squeezes his hand, knowing. He comes along as he checks himself in and unpacks, and then they make their way out to the pool to meet the others.

***

Almost everyone arrives for the early dinner. It’s not a big wedding by any means, only the friends and immediate family, but stuffing them all together in a courtyard certainly makes it seem overwhelming. Helga groans, thinking about how packed the boat is going to be for the ceremony as she picks at the finger food.

The tables have assigned seating, and of course as maid of honor, she’s made to sit with the couple and the best man. Gerald’s siblings are there too, much to his dismay. She passes the cocktail bar and runs into Harold, who hugs her with one arm as the other is weighted with a full plate. 

“Who told you it was okay to look this good, Pataki?” he pokes fun at her, arching a brow. 

“Take a picture, Berman, it’ll last longer,” she winks at him. “Where’s your girl?”

Harold’s face splits into a grin, wide and sweet as he jerks a thumb at the table a few feet behind them. His daughter is in Sheena’s lap, getting her face stuffed full of mashed potatoes while Nadine takes pictures, their daughter Ivy preoccupied with a coloring book. “With the ladies. Where’s _your_ girl?” 

“Still upstairs,” Helga frowns, thinking. They still hadn’t talked much since the dressing appointment. “Says she’s not hungry yet, so.”

“More for the rest of us, then,” he jokes, and she ribs him.

“You wish, pisshead. Which table you at?”

“Sid and the others,” he says. “Oh, hey, stop over when you’re done with your maidly duties, yeah? You guys still gotta pick a song for The Thing!”

Right, The Thing -- the surprise, for the ceremony. Helga agreed to sing for the Mauve Storm, just for the first dance before the DJ takes over, but they hadn’t decided on a song. Gerald and Phoebe had a couple of favorites to choose from, but that just made it harder.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll figure it out tonight, promise,” she says. She gives him a quick peck on the cheek and heads over to her table. 

They’re set up in the gazebo, with a large, octagonal table draped in expensive cloth, a stunning arrangement of flowers hanging overhead. They sway gently in the afternoon breeze, petals falling now and again. Helga scoots her seat in, next to Arnold, of course, because God hates her (or whoever arranged the seating does), but thankfully he seems distracted. 

Timberly’s son is climbing all over him, the boy’s two uncles obviously no help at all as Arnold gets his hair pulled and his shirt drooled on. It seems he’s having fun, though, laughing and making faces. She’s never been one to get gooey over guys with kids, not in the slightest, but of course, it’s different when it’s Arnold. 

“Trevor!” Timberly’s voice cuts through all the gurgling and giggling. “Trevor, stop with that!”

Gerald’s younger sister stomps over, holding out her arms to scoop up the three-year-old. 

“Sorry Arnold, he gets a little crazy when he hasn’t had a nap,” she apologizes, but Arnold’s smiling.

“It’s okay, I do too.” 

She laughs, taking Trevor in her arms to go deliver him to his father, and Arnold heaves a breath.

“I just can’t get over it,” he says. “Timberly, married with kids already. She’s still so young.”

Gerald shrugs, stabbing a fork into his steak. “She didn’t wanna wait. Got hitched during college.”

“Is that her husband over there?” Arnold asks, and curiously, Helga peeps too, never having met him before. He’s a tall guy, handsome with braids and tattoos. He’s got their new baby swaddled in a sling.

“Yeah, that’s Sean,” Jamie-O tells him. “He’s alright, just weirdly quiet. Dad doesn’t like him that much, but he’s a great dad, so. How ‘bout you, you married yet, Arnold?”

Arnold chokes on his drink, thumping his chest -- Helga feels the color rising dramatically in her face, clutching her fork. “Jamie-O…”

“Jamie-O, c’mon man,” Gerald warns him, scowling, but his older brother’s laughing, of course. No shame at all. 

Arnold is a good sport about it, as expected, just looks wildly embarrassed. “It’s okay! But uh, no, no I’m not.” 

“No?” he presses on, taking a bite of meat. “That’s weird.” 

“Not for our age group,” Phoebe offers, blowing on her soup. Jamie-O rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, guess not, fuckin’ millennials.” 

“Shove it, Jamie-O, you ain’t far off the cut-off,” Gerald barks at him, and Phoebe sighs into another spoonful of soup.

“How ‘bout you, Helga? You thinkin’ bout putting a ring on it?” 

It’s Helga’s turn to gag, coughing and wheezing when her iced tea goes down the wrong pipe. Arnold smacks a hand at her back and her face burns hotter, making it more of a struggle to catch her breath. Of course he means Lila, _of course_ he does, but sitting here next to _Arnold_ at a _wedding_ party without any Lila-supervision, well. It’s enough to make her lose her senses. Gerald looks ready to stab his brother, but he keeps on.

“They legalized gay marriage, right? That’s a thing?”

“Yes, Jamie-O it’s ‘ _a thing_ ,’” she manages, throaty and hoarse. “But no, I don’t -- we haven’t talked about that.” 

“ _Any_ of your gay friends married?” he asks, and Timberly swoops back in to give him a good whack upside the head. “Ow!”

“You done bein’ an asshole yet?”

“Oh, thank goodness, Timberly’s returned to rescue us,” Phoebe grins at her, but Timberly’s still scolding him, drawing up her chair. 

“Can you behave yourself for like, once in your goddamn life -- ” 

“Hey, you arranged the seating, little sister.” 

“Well can we get a revision for the rest of the week?” Gerald asks bluntly, over the rim of his glass, and she winks at him.

“I’ll jot it down on the to-do list.” 

“Arnold Shortman!” a bell of a voice rings from behind them. Arnold whirls in his chair, practically jumping out of it once he recognizes the two women.

“Hey, Sheena, Nadine! Wow, look at you -- ” 

He pulls the taller one in for a hug first, squeezing her as Nadine shuffles to Helga, eyes widening at the low cut of her shirt.

“Helga, holy shit, your titties -- ”

“Shhhhut up,” she blushes, hugging her gently. “C’mere, c’mere.” 

“ _These_ gay friends are married,” the groom announces, arching a brow at his brother. Nadine grunts, rubbing at her middle. The buttons of her sun-dress are pulled a little taut around the swell of her tummy.

“Thanks for the intro, Gerald,” she grunts.

“Hi, James,” Sheena says, a little friendlier. 

Arnold moves in to hug Nadine too, but he squeezes a little too tight and she squeaks. “Oof, easy on the goods, babe -- precious cargo, here.” 

“Oh!” he gasps. “Nadine, you’re -- expecting?”

She cracks a little smile. “Yep, Ivy’s gonna be a big sister.”

“Shut up!!” Helga giggles, delighted for her. “That’s great!”

“You guys, that’s amazing!” Phoebe says, the table dissolving into coos and mutters of congratulations. “When are you due?”

“Eh, October, November, somewhere around there,” she says, waving her hand.

“Whoa, I wouldn’t have guessed,” Helga offers. “You can’t even tell from the back.”

“Oh, don’t even. I know I look like a cow.” 

Sheena leans over and wraps her arms around her, resting her chin on her shoulder. “She’s just cranky because she hasn’t seen her own feet in weeks.” 

“And you don’t tell me what they look like!” 

“They look great, y’know, for feet,” Arnold offers, winking, and Nadine laughs.

“Thanks, Arnold.”

“It’s almost surreal seeing you in person again, this must be some sort of sign of good fortune!” Sheena says.

“Sheena’s Wiccan,” Helga says, leaning into Arnold’s ear. “If you couldn’t tell from the everything-about-her.” 

“Bite me, Helga,” Sheena smirks, and the blonde sticks her tongue out at her.

“You’d like that.” 

Nadine laughs, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah. You’re doing the cabin thing with us tonight, right Helga?” 

Helga stiffens. She’d almost forgotten about the hike and camping. They were supposed to set out right after this lunch-dinner thing and make it to the campsite by sunset. All the close friends were supposed to go as a sort of bachelor party, and Helga had been excited for it, but with Arnold there...

“Come on, you know Lila doesn’t like that shit,” she says, staring into her drink and ignoring the pouty face Phoebe’s making across the table.

“So don’t bring her!” Nadine says boldly, shrugging. 

“Yeah, we haven’t hung out in over a year,” Sheena whimpers, making a fat lip. 

“Yeah, plus, Arnold’s coming too, right?” Nadine says, looking expectant, and he nods, enthusiastic.

“Yeah, of course I am.” 

“See? It’ll be like old times,” Sheena says, wistfully. “The gang all together again. Just us and the Mother.”

“Mother?” asks Arnold.

“Nature,” Helga answers.

“Exactly,” Sheena nods.

“So don’t even _think_ about skipping out,” Gerald says, pointing his pinky finger at her. “It’s technically our bachelor party, so, as maid of honor…”

“I think, legally, you have to come, Helga,” Arnold eggs her on, a playful grin on his lips. “Lila can survive a night alone in a five-star hotel room.” 

In truth, Phoebe’s doleful eyes were plenty enough to convince her, but once Arnold made it known in his own subtle way that he wanted her there, Helga shamefully made up her mind. It wasn’t like Lila wasn’t already counting on her going, anyway. It’s perfectly fine. She smiles, shrugging.

“Yeah, I'll be there.”

“Excellent,” Phoebe squeaks, hands clasped under her chin. “Oh, I’m so excited!”

***

“You sure you don’t wanna come?”

Helga grabs an extra pair of panties and stuffs them into her overnight bag, holographic pink and waterproof. She’s kept it all the way from seventh grade just for outdoor activities. She switches her essentials over from her suitcase -- deodorant, a swimsuit, and since Arnold will be there, another extra crop top -- _no, no, in case it’s too hot,_ she reminds herself --

“Ever-so sure, Helga,” Lila says, cutting off her train of thought. “You know I’m not a camper.” 

“You know it’s not gonna be like, rustic, right?” Helga has to laugh. She folds a pair of leggings and stuffs them inside. “Not sure Rhonda would survive if it was.”

“I know, it’s okay. I’d much rather stay here and enjoy the pool,” she smiles. “Besides, Timberly and Sean wanted to go sight-seeing, and I promised I’d watch the kids.” 

“Rhonda didn’t hire a nanny for fun, Lila,” she reminds her, but Lila shrugs. “There’s still space in the cabin even with Arnold joining last minute...”

“It’s okay, Helga. Really,” she says, insistently. “Besides, I won’t be alone. Kim’s staying behind, too.”

Lila looks weirdly happy about that, her face brightening just the slightest bit, but Helga doesn’t think much of it. Just shrugs, bending down to tie her shoes. “Oh, right. Well, as long as you don’t mind.” 

“Of course I don’t. I’m happy to see you happy, Helga.” 

She gets up, taking her hands in hers and squeezing them affectionately. “I’ll call you when we get up there.”

Helga leans in to kiss her, but she pulls away, making for the bathroom. “You can certainly try, but you probably can’t get a signal out there.” 

_What’s with her_ , she wonders, but figures it’s just stress. It can’t be _her_ , there’s no way it can be her -- she hasn’t done anything. If she’s jealous, that’s her problem. Arnold’s here for a wedding, not for her, and even if he were, it’s not like it makes a difference. She’s not getting herself tangled up in something like the web Rhonda’s weaving. She worked too hard to accept her fate to go off changing it now. Nothing’s going to change. 

Helga double-checks her gear and makes off to meet everyone else in the lobby, totally unaware that a tawdry, antique golden locket from all those years ago is safely tucked away into the zippered pocket of her pink Kacy’s duffle bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kid headcanons are fun. they'll only be mentioned off-handedly throughout the piece, but for notes:
> 
> sarah jane berman - harold's daughter, 9-10  
> trevor and demi - timberly's kids, 3 and a newborn  
> iman and jesse johanssen - jamie-o's kids, 7 and 2  
> ivy - nadine and sheena's adopted daughter, 8
> 
> i like to imagine the johanssens fighting over kids' names so jamie-o hurried up and had kids first so he could claim iman. poor gerald couldn't even get first dibs on trevor. oh well, as long as timberly lets him have kiki.


	4. wednesday night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "don't worry, my poor, clumsy friend. you're in good hands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very long chapter, i apologize. the nostalgia chapter, as i've been referring to it in my head. urban legends. zany situations. gratuitous flirty arnold. just a few of my favorite things. extreme self-indulgence. happy sunday!

The sun will set at eight, so the friends leave for the cabin a little bit after six. It’s only two miles, but the lodge is on a cliff -- the last leg of the hike is a bit steep and they’re “getting old”, so they give themselves enough leeway to make it in time. Arnold naturally voices some concern for Eugene, but Curly -- Thad -- is driving him up on his scooter, meeting them there. 

“We’ll have to catch up later,” he tells Arnold, brightly. He hadn’t arrived at Starside until well after the late lunch, having been busy with a few appointments around the city. 

His growth is the most drastic of all, Arnold would surmise, standing a head shorter than him now. His aura isn’t much different -- Curly had always been bizarrely charismatic, able to command the attention of any room he’d waltzed into. That hasn’t changed. No, it’s all in the way that he smiles, now, without the dubious glint of a crooked scheme in his eyes. No impish curl in his upper lip. He looks friendly, almost winsome, and only slightly like the Devil Himself.

He can’t help but notice the way he and Rhonda are pointedly avoiding each other’s gaze and feels a little less pathetic about the _tiny_ bit of tension between himself and Helga. They share a hug and then he and Eugene take off onto the separate path, leaving the rest of them to set out on foot toward the towering trees.

Arnold hadn’t been in this forest since fourth or fifth grade, yet it looks almost exactly the same as before. When his grandfather had taken him and Gerald, they’d stopped no less than a mile up the trail, right where the thick of the forest had started. He thinks he recognizes the clearing where they camped all those years ago, the tire marks on the trees from Bob Pataki’s RV. There’s still a cluster of berry bushes separating the dirt trail from the site. He wonders how many other people have stayed in that exact spot over the years. It doesn’t look like much.

“Nobody really comes out here anymore,” Nadine would answer him. For someone pregnant, she’s quick on her feet, keeping an even pace a little ways ahead of the rest of them with her wife in tow. “It’s kind of sad, really. It’s such a lush area, really cool bugs out here. Wait ‘til you see the view, Arnold.”

“Is it all mostly your family’s property, now, Rhonda?” Arnold asks her, and she huffs and puffs behind him.

“No, not all of it. We had the lodge built in 2008, but it’s only the small little area uphill that’s ours.”

“Don’t really know why people don’t come out here anymore,” Stinky says. “It’s free real estate, as the kids say.”

“Isn’t it kinda, y’know,” Sid starts, shuffling closer to him, “ _Haunted_? That’s why nobody camps here anymore, right? ‘Cuz of the Goatman thing?”

“Uh, ‘Goatman thing’?” Arnold cocks an eyebrow, and Gerald starts laughing.

“Yeah, you never heard of the Goatman, Arnold?” 

“Save it for the campfire, Geraldo,” Helga groans, slightly pink in the face. Harold nudges her, jeering. 

“Only if you give us an encore,” he teases her, and she shoves him, barely making him stumble. 

“Gerald directed a short film about the legend of the Goatman a few years ago,” Phoebe explains, “It did exceptionally well at the Moodance Festival, both he and Helga claimed first prize in their respective categories!”

Arnold beams at them ahead. “Wow! That’s fantastic, guys!”

“She got two awards, actually,” Gerald boasts. Helga makes a noise like an angry cat. “One for Best Actress, and another for screen-writing -- ”

Wildly impressed, Arnold shuffles on the trail to catch up to her, fully ready to shower her with compliments, but she groans, flailing her hands around. 

“He’s making it sound more impressive than it actually is,” she insists. Nadine and Sheena are giggling up ahead. Sid and Stinky make knowing faces at each other as she rambles on. “So some small-time indie festival liked me three years ago, it’s not like I won an Oscar, or something.” 

“You can’t be hot _and_ humble, Helga, pick a struggle,” Rhonda scolds her, whacking her on the ass with a rolled-up map. She yelps, and Eugene’s dog yelps, too. Sheena tugs on his leash, whistling.

“How ‘bout _your_ struggle back there, Princess?” Gerald calls to Rhonda over his shoulder. “You gonna make it in those Spumoni boots?” 

They banter back and forth for a few minutes, loudly, until Harold complains about needing a snack and Nadine leads them to a small clearing. Likely an old rest stop, with a drinking fountain and a port-a-potty. There’s a small ledge looking over a creek and a convenient arrangement of logs to sit on, so they hang out for a few minutes, enjoying the shade. 

Helga goes off a little ways, walking along the cliff and fixing her ponytail. The hem of her sweatshirt rides up a little too high on her chest, high enough for him to glimpse what looks like a tattoo along her ribs. A short scribble of words he can recognize as French, punctuated with a delicate rose peeking out from under the band of her sports bra. Pink, he notices -- the flower, not the bra. It’s stupid, but it makes his stomach flutter. 

He hops over a log and a few over-sized rocks, trying to think of something to say when she turns to grin at him, catching him off guard. 

“Must be like running around a kiddie playground for you, huh?” she jokes, gesturing toward the eroded earth and stickly trees. “All this.” 

He feels his face reddening and shrugs. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that…”

“C’mon, Arnold, look at you,” she says casually, not looking at him at all. “You’re stacked up like Bob’s credit card debt. I can only imagine what kinda Tarzan shit you’ve been doing all this time.” 

His heart skips several beats, the swooping sensation in his stomach worsening as he shakes his head, stammering. “O-Oh no, I mean -- yeah, I’ve been through some...some dangerous areas, but -- I wasn’t exactly swinging from vines all day, every day, Helga.”

“Oh yeah?” She sounds intrigued, but the sort of intrigued where she’s trying _not_ to sound intrigued. The tips of her ears are a little pink and she’s rubbing her elbow. Other telltale signs. He indulges her, happily, trying not to luxuriate too much in her obvious distress.

“Yeah, I mean...mostly I was studying. Medicine, and animals...I learned a couple languages. I actually just did a lot of what I did here, in Hillwood.”

“Helping people?” she finishes for him, her eyes softening. 

His heart clenches. She’s looking down at him through those thick, feathery lashes and he suddenly feels so small under her gaze. He wonders what he must look like through her eyes, wonders how she feels with him staring at her like this, eyelids lowered. She’s shaking, just slightly. He can still see right through her. He smiles, weakly. “Yeah.” 

“Hey!” Gerald calls out to them, waving an arm. “You guys ready? We gotta get movin’!” 

The both of them whirl around, but Helga must have spun too quickly on her heel, because the second Arnold starts off toward the group, she lets out an ungodly screech, and down she goes, slipping down the slope of the ledge. Arnold’s heart stops, terror ripping through him as he leaps over the edge and practically skates down the small cliff --

Thankfully Helga’s not _in_ the creek, or bleeding from the head like he’d feared. Just landed square on her ass in the dirt and sand. It wasn’t a long way down, luckily -- maybe three or four feet. Enough to sprain an ankle, and certainly more than enough to startle anyone. Phoebe’s yelling from above, but Helga yells back that she’s fine, that they’ll just catch up, and Arnold groans. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he tells her. “Are you alright? Anything feel broken or sprained?”

She seems okay, just frazzled. He hovers over her anyway, looking her over. She shrivels up under his scrutiny like a prune, chewing on her lip and blushing up to her hairline. 

“It’s just a _scratch_ , Arnold -- I’ll probably just have some horrific bruise later,” she yips like a nervous chihuahua, immensely embarrassed. She angles her body away from him, but she can’t exactly hide much in those tiny spandex shorts. There’s a long gash along her left leg, from just above her knee up her thigh, but it doesn’t look too deep. Probably just caught a branch on the slide downward.

“Hold still, I got you,” he says gently, fighting to keep his voice calm, but his heart is doing somersaults. This shouldn’t be as exciting as it is, coming to her “rescue” -- it’s just a mild laceration. Not exactly high-stakes, but the adrenaline is pumping anyway. It doesn’t exactly help that she’s so outwardly flustered. She's still so cute when she's mad. 

He fumbles for the first aid kit in his gear, pulling out a washcloth and dipping it in the creek. He wrings out the excess water and kneels, apprehensively, at her feet, avoiding her eyes as he puts pressure on the wound.

“I can do it myself,” she tells him, but makes no move to grab it from him. She’s practically glowing crimson, a sheen of sweat shining along the column of her neck. An electrifying pulse of heat sizzles under his palm where it meets her skin, just briefly.

“It’ll only take a minute, promise,” he says, evenly. “Here, hold that there.” 

He reaches for the medical tape and gauze, and then Helga asks, a little more patient, “Can you grab my aspirin while you’re at it, then?”

“You didn’t hit your head, did you?” he worries, but she rolls her eyes. 

“No, Arnold, I just feel a stress-headache coming on -- it should be in the little zipper-pocket.” 

Arnold opens up her duffle, digging around for the right pocket. There’s a covert zipper that must be the one, small and bulging with the pill bottle. He works open the seam, the air vacuuming out of his lungs when he notices -- oh.

Nestled next to the near-expired bottle of aspirin, a tiny, gold-plated, heart-shaped locket peeks out from the innermost seam, Arnold’s own emerald green eyes staring back at him from the picture in the frame. 

His blood goes cold. 

“Did you find it?” she needles him, and Arnold yelps, seizing the bottle. He zips it back up and swallows, with difficulty, his pulse drumming hard in his ears as she takes the pills from him. Oh boy. Oh, _God_. He can hardly believe it. It's the locket. Her locket. THE locket. His sixth-grade school picture resting neatly in frame. Chipped edges from being shoved into the mechanism and plied back out. _Arnold, my soul, you are always in my heart._

She kept it. All this time, she kept it. 

She never really moved on.

Arnold twists open the cap to the peroxide, fingers trembling. She knows it’s in there, right? She has to -- she packed for this trip, didn’t she? She had to have put it there, wanted to have taken it with her. But then, why would she ask him to grab something? There’s no way she wanted him to see that. Did she forget? No, no way -- she’d always known _exactly_ where it was at all times, before. It just doesn’t make any sense -- 

“Come on, not the peroxide,” she moans, driving him from his thoughts. “Just tape some gauze to me and it’ll be fine -- ” 

“Helga, you don’t want to risk infection,” he croaks, hands shaking. “I’ll be careful -- it’ll only sting a little bit.” 

“I know, I know, I’m not five,” she grunts, looking away as he dabs at the laceration. _She definitely doesn’t realize_ , he thinks, heart pounding. _She must have forgotten_. _Unless_ …

“Fuck, that hurts,” she grimaces, shifting around, distressed. In a lapse of self-control, Arnold leans in a little too close. With a soft inclination of his head, he lowers his voice, eyes boring into her.

“Don’t worry, my poor, clumsy friend. You’re in good hands.” 

It’s not possible at this point for her to turn any redder, so Helga just swings at him, her fist meeting his bicep in a half-hearted punch. It doesn’t even hurt, but it does throw him off balance, enough to make him toddle backwards and scrape his knee. He laughs it off, and then she giggles, too, both of them dropping off into sighs as he finishes dressing the cut. He reaches out a hand to help her to her feet, and to his surprise, she takes it. Holding it for just two seconds too long. 

“Are you alright to walk?” he asks, softly, searching her eyes. For some affirmation, an invitation, anything. Something to let him know what’s going on. 

She offers nothing of the sort, of course, brushing herself off. She swings her duffle back around her shoulder as her face quickly returns to a relatively normal color. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little sore. Come on, they’re probably way ahead of us, now.”

She starts off, climbing up rocks with caution, and behind her, Arnold can’t help but ask --

“Hey, Helga?” 

“Yeah?”

“What’s your tattoo say?” 

She halts for a second, only a second, grabbing onto another rock and hoisting herself back up onto the trail. She sighs deeply, not waiting up as Arnold gets his bearings behind her. 

“ _‘devenir libre’_ ,” she answers smoothly, the lilt of her tongue making his heart stutter. “To be free.”

***

The gash in her thigh isn’t the only thing throbbing by the time they reach the lodge.

 _“Don’t worry, my poor, clumsy friend. You’re in good hands.”_ Was he fucking serious? Is he _actually_ kidding? The exact same _cadence_ , same _inflection_ as a flirtatious little utterance on the YMAA dance floor almost twenty years ago. _Twenty years_ , and he can remember verbatim what he’d said to her. She’d had no time to react then, having been swung around like a ragdoll before getting dunked into a freezing pool -- but now she could feel the aftershocks tenfold, with the added insult of his hands on her legs. Her _bare_ legs. Her skin is still searing hot from the warmth of his palms. The tips of his fingers. Jesus H. Christ. 

There’s no harm in teasing -- they’re adults, they’re friends, and they used to date. It’s almost to be expected. Totally normal. 

But that? That wasn’t just _teasing_. That was a deliberate, calculated gesticulation, a targeted attack. A checkmate. He’d just knocked her bishop off the chessboard with that one. It takes a considerable amount of effort to calm her heart. He knows it, too, grinning to himself as if she can’t see him just out of the corner of her eye. This fucking guy. She chomps down on her bottom lip. 

She _could_ call him out on it. She almost does, but then thinks better of it. Starting a fight is dangerous when the subject matter is so emotionally charged, especially for them. It would only end one of two extremely specific ways, both of which involve her pinning him to the ground, neither one laudable in even the minutest bit. No, she’ll have to maintain her self-control if she wants to get through this week. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s going to have to play by himself, and that’s that.

Even having fallen behind, Helga and Arnold make it to the cliffside just in time to watch the Golden Hour paint streaks of rose and amber across the sky with everyone else. They’ve all dropped their gear and luggage, sitting and standing around the patio, staring as the sun dips below where the sky meets the sea. The water sparkles, glittering along the horizon, still and undisturbed even by the squawking seagulls flying overhead and the ducks and geese below. Helga sighs. She’s no stranger to this view, but something about the presence of her friends -- the presence of Arnold -- makes it breathtaking, almost magical. He smiles at her, his sun-kissed face bathed in amber light, and she is sorely reminded of the day she thought she was going to die with him, dangling off of the remnants of that shoddy wooden bridge.

If someone were to toss her over the ledge and into the lake right now, she thinks she’d be okay with that. 

It’s Harold who breaks the silence, announcing his hunger once again, and a few of them file inside to start getting dinner ready. Sid gets the bonfire going, and Stinky and Sheena start on the tent, music blaring over Nadine’s blue-tooth speaker. 

There’s plenty of room in the lodge -- seven bedrooms and the furnished lounge, but of course Sheena and the guys insist on sleeping outside. Helga helps them set up, cornering the components of Mauve Storm once she was sure Gerald and Phoebe were occupied indoors. 

It takes some debate, but they settle on a song. Curly’s suggestion, funnily enough. He’s already a little drunk, having arrived earlier than the rest of them since he’d driven Eugene. He mentions something about a gasket blowing on his scooter and pulls Helga aside to ask her to fix it.

“I’ll have a look at it tomorrow morning,” she promises him, hugging him tight. “So, you still giving Rhonda the silent treatment, or…?” 

“I wasn’t to begin with!” he insists, lifting his brows. “She’s the one ignoring me! I’m not even mad anymore.”

The blonde laughs, taking out a cigarette and offering him one. He lights up with her, looping his arm through hers as they stroll around the property, eyes heavenward. The sky’s getting a little darker, now, dark enough to see some of the stars. The clouds have thinned out and parted, and the shadow of a full moon is just barely visible over the tops of the trees.

“What about you,” he says, peering at her over the rim of his glasses. “Is it weird? With Arnold?”

“Not as weird as you and Rhonda,” she jokes, and he snickers. She laughs. “No, it was really fuckin’ weird at first, since I didn’t know he was gonna be here, but. No, everything’s fine. Totally normal. It’s good.”

“Still trying to convince yourself, I see,” he sighs, and she elbows him, but she’s too tired to get pissed. It’s not like he’s wrong, anyway. Helga sighs, too, leaning on his shoulder. 

“She doesn’t deserve you, you know.” 

Curly laughs and it sounds like a harking swan. “Awful thing to say about your friend, Helga Geraldine.” 

“She says so herself.” 

“Does she?” he asks, his voice suddenly going soft. 

“Yeah, all the time,” she tells him, knowing full-well Rhonda would be pissed if she knew, but. Sometimes being a loyal friend means you have to talk a little shit. (just a little.) “She’s crazy about you, Curly. She just doesn’t know if she can live up to your expectations.” 

“Expectations!” he parrots her, loud enough to scare a nearby squirrel. “Ha! Like I’m asking for much -- ”

“You’re not,” Helga tells him, brows winding together. “You’re not, but she doesn’t get that. Look, I’m not sure you realize, but…”

He looks somber, watching her face carefully with his round, brown eyes. The breeze drifts through his hair, lifting the curl of fringe over his right brow. He frowns, but he still looks handsome that way. His cheekbones are sharp enough to cut. Helga smiles weakly. 

“She doesn’t like herself very much,” she finishes, soberly. “She won’t admit it, but that’s it. That’s why she does the things she does.” 

“Helga,” he starts. She blows out smoke, groaning.

“Look, Curly, until she starts treating herself better, she’ll never treat you right.” 

“You would know, wouldn't you?” he asks her. It's not a jibe at all, more like a depressing realization. 

“Yes, _Thad_ , I would,” she admits, taking a long drag. “And if Rhonda’s not careful, she’s gonna wind up like me.” 

She doesn’t mean for it sound as bad as it does, really. There's nothing _bad_ about the way she's wound up -- Lila is good to her, everything she needs. Some people get exactly what they need, and they should be thankful, because they have it really good. Those people are lucky. Lucky doesn't always conflate with "happy." Even Rhonda could attest to that. 

Tears well up in her eyes and she wipes them away with her ring finger. Some people just can't be happy.

“You don’t need to keep punishing yourself, Helga,” Curly says gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She’s fuming, but she can’t help but feel held by him. Always held by him. Understood in a way most others weren’t able. She moves in closer, lets him wrap an arm around her shoulder. They stay like that for a while, parting only when the harsh ring of a cowbell summons them all to the firepit.

***

Mostly everyone is already drunk by the time they finish dinner, with the exception of Arnold, Helga, and the pregnant Nadine. Eugene finished one (one) hard cider and was already throwing up in the woods, Sheena kindly keeping him company while the others party on, not a single care in the world as the fire blazes and the moon keeps watch through the pines. Rhonda and Nadine soak in the hot tub, splashing the boys passing by as Helga and Sid strum away on guitar. Arnold sits with Stinky, dog in his lap, chatting about their favorite albums as of late, keenly observing the singers across the patio.

So she plays guitar, too. He never knew her to be so musically inclined, back when they were children. She wasn't, outside of the rare choir show, and even then, she was put upon by a desperate Mr. Simmons. He wonders what sparked the interest. If maybe she picked it up because she missed him. 

He used to play piano for her, up on the rooftop of the Sunset Arms. She never sang along or danced. Just watched him. Watched his fingers float and press and stroke. She had a thing for his hands. 

He looks at hers, now. At her long, slender fingers. The others used to make fun of her "big man-hands," but Arnold always thought they were dainty. Maybe just a little too big for a little girl, but she's grown into them now. They're beautiful, not too knobby around the knuckles anymore. A little rough at the fingertips, enough so to make him wonder what she does with them all day. How she can play guitar with that manicure is a wonder he can't cease. She and Sid are nodding their heads along to the harmony they've created, and then she starts laughing -- must have slipped on a chord. She leans on the guitar. Cheek in her left hand. _O, that I were a glove upon that hand._

“You still playin’ piano, Arnold?” Stinky asks him, startling him out of his stupor.

He sputters on his lemonade a little bit. “Oh, um, yeah, actually! I’m not as good as I used to be, though. Haven’t really had much time to play.”

“Right, right,” Stinky nods, throwing back his beer, totally oblivious. “I reckon all those kids must keep you busy. You still takin’ care of that orphanage, huh?”

“Yeah,” Arnold smiles, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Yeah, I am.”

“The work o’ the Lord Himself,” Stinky muses, grinning fondly. “Always knew you was a saint, Arnold. I gotta feeling you’re doin’ exactly what you were put on this crapsack of an earth to do.” 

Touched, Arnold sinks lower into the log chair, chest tightening with amity. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me, Stinky.”

“Just speakin’ my truth, Arnold,” he says, holding up his bottle to toast him. “It’s a dang miracle some of us made it this far without ya.”

He frowns, knots swelling in his throat. “I’m so sorry...after hearing everything everyone’s told me about their lives, everything that’s happened...I wish I could have been there for you.”

“Aw, willikers, I didn’t mean to make ya feel bad,” he says bashfully, scratching his neck. “I just meant we missed ya, Arnold. I wish we all had happier stories to tell ya. But as my great Uncle Stinky always says, life ain’t always good to good people.” 

“Well, he’s right about that,” Arnold agrees, watching everyone else. It’s bittersweet, seeing them laughing and carrying on so happily, knowing how much they’ve all struggled to get here, right here. It might be selfish or conceited, to think if he’d stayed, things could have been different -- easier, somehow, even if only for one of them. Maybe Harold wouldn’t have gotten married, Eugene wouldn’t have gotten sick, Sid wouldn’t have been hospitalized. If he’d been around, maybe Gerald and Phoebe would have gotten married sooner, saved both of them some heartache. 

(maybe he and helga would still be together.) 

“ -- you’re flat, Sid, come on, like this,” he can hear her say, loudly over Harold’s raucous laughter and Rhonda’s whining. “ _We were sailing along, on moonlight bay_ …”

“Not that old song, Helga,” Stinky groans, rising up from the log stool. She blows a raspberry at him.

“Suck it, Stinko, it’s a good warm-up,” she says, and goes on singing, “ _We can hear the voices ringing, they seem to say_ …”

“ _You have stolen my heart_ ,” Arnold chimes in, remembering. Helga’s fingers fumble and miss the next chord, but he finishes the bar, “ _and gone away_ …”

“ _As we sing love’s own sweet song on moonlight bay_ ,” Sid finishes with a vibrato, cut off by Phoebe, who makes the poorest and silliest attempt at a bass note he’s ever heard --

“ _On moonlight baaaay_!”

Gerald explodes into laughter, squeezing her in a hug from behind. “Nooo, no no no, baby, you gotta do it like this -- _on moonlight bay_ \-- ”

The others dissolve into chortles and wheezes, taking turns at trying to hit a bass note, until Helga shows them all up with an operatic falsetto, “ _On moonlight bay…!_ ”

“Point made, Pataki,” Gerald waves her off, but Arnold knows he’s just as impressed as everyone else is. “Point made -- ”

“Voice of an angel,” Stinky hums, slow-clapping. Helga scowls, but she’s smiling, just a little. 

“Yeah, yeah, tell it to the Phantom,” she jokes, strumming the guitar again. She locks eyes with Arnold just briefly, blushing as she mutters, “Well, what’s the holdup, Geraldo, are we getting your Goatman dramatization or what?” 

Arnold blinks -- he’d almost forgotten about it. He hadn’t thought they were actually being serious, but if they really wanted a truly authentic nostalgia trip, they’d need a dramatic retelling of a local urban legend. He settles back into the log chair, eyes trained on Helga as she curls up next to Phoebe, sharing an old quilt with her. 

The rest of them gather in a circle around the pit, Stinky tending to the flames as Sid and Gerald prep for their narrative, childlike glimmers of excitement in their eyes. Once the audience is settled, cozy and simmered down, Gerald pats Sid on the back, handing him a twig. 

“M’kay, Sid -- lead me in babe.”

Sid holds the stick like a mic, giggles and chortles rippling through the group as he indulges them for old time’s sake. He clears his throat.

“The legend of the Goatman,” he starts, over the drunken laughter, “is a terrifying and indisputably true tale, originated in this very forest, generations before us. Our very own Gerald is the keeper of the tale.” 

He hops down off the log, passing the twig to Gerald, also clearing his throat exaggeratedly. 

“Here we go,” Rhonda mutters next to Arnold, crossing one leg over the other.

“Take it away, Gerald,” Sid says, leaning up against Stinky’s shins. All eyes turn toward the groom, and words slurring, he begins.

“They called him -- the _Goatman_ ,” he rasps, waggling his fingers on his head to mime horns. “Now like Sid said, this story is the indisputable truth, told directly to me by Jamie-O’s friend’s Uncle Jay, so make of that what you will.”

“Christ,” Helga murmurs, and Phoebe shushes her.

“Some say, he’s a cryptid,” Gerald goes on, “some say, an abomination, a failed science experiment from an agricultural research center up in Beltsville, Maryland. Some say, he’s an alien from a parallel dimension -- and some say, he’s a shape-shifter, mimicking the voices of our loved ones to lure us into the forest. And some say -- it’s just some creep who likes to scare hikers, who knows!”

“We know, Gerald, get to the point,” Helga hassles him, and he hushes her, flailing his arms.

“Anyway! It was the summer of 1986, and Jay was camping up on this very mountain under a full moon, on a night just like tonight.”

Arnold stifles a grin, shaking his head as he takes a generous sip of his lemonade. He can hear Rhonda sighing and Nadine giggling, Harold munching loudly on jerky and popcorn as Gerald continues. 

“He was cooking hot dogs out over the fire when he started to smell it -- a sharp, coppery smell, somethin’ like burning rubber, or blood. He thought it was the food at first, but no, it was coming from somewhere else. Like it was just hanging in the air. It was weird, but he couldn’t see anything that could have been wrong, so he just kept cooking, and counted the hot dogs. There were seven of them, one for each of the campers.” 

“Hoo boy,” Stinky mutters, and Sid pinches him, cackling just a little. 

“Now Jay was the new kid on the block,” he explains, “so he wasn’t well-acquainted with everyone along for the trip. He had his friend, Wade, but he didn’t know everyone else too well, so when he miscounted and was left with an extra hot dog, he started to get worried.”

“‘Who’re we missing?’ He asked the group. Everybody starts shakin’ their heads, shrugging like they don’t know. ‘I swear there were seven of us,’ he tells them. He even counted himself. How could he get it wrong? It wasn’t like seven was a huge group. That’s when the smell started getting worse. It was real strong, pungent, the kinda stench that hits the back of your throat. Jay was feelin’ like somethin’ was really, really wrong, so he makes everybody scramble into the tent.”

“Hey,” Harold interjects, sniffling, “You guys smell that?”

“Stop it, Harold,” Nadine snaps at him, but Sheena’s giggling. 

“No, I’m serious!”

“Can it, Harold, quit scarin’ everybody,” Helga scolds him, but he’s still whining.

“Come on, you don’t smell that?”

Gerald whiffs the air, making a face and shrugging. “I don’t smell nothin’.” 

“It’s more over back here,” Harold says. Arnold glances his way and there’s not a trace of a laugh on his face, he looks stone cold. “It smells like charcoal or gasoline or something -- ”

“That would be the fire, Harold,” Nadine sighs, but he’s persistent.

“C’mon, guys, I’m really not tryin’ to be a piece of shit -- ”

“I don’t smell anything unusual, Harold,” Rhonda grumbles, but Eugene knits his brows together, clutching his cane close to his chest.

“Actually, I think I do smell something, you guys,” he says, his voice wavering.

“Can you weasels pipe down for like, five minutes?” Helga groans, and Arnold can’t help but chortle. “Rhonda probably left incense burning by the jacuzzi or something, there’s no fucking Goatman -- ”

“Helga, ya done?” Gerald says, and she throws up a defeated hand. “So. They’re all huddled in the tent, and they start hearin’ this voice, right? Jay’s tryin’ to get everybody to keep quiet so he can listen to it. It almost sounds like one of the girls that was with them earlier, but not quite. Just different enough to make his skin crawl. She sounds wrong, like a cat trying to imitate a human voice. ‘Let me in,’ he hears it say. And it just keeps saying it. ‘Let me in, let me in, let me in,’ -- ”

Harold squeals, jumping up from his seat and sending Curly into a fit of laughter. Rhonda leers at him, throwing popcorn at him.

“Harold, please!”

“What’s the matter?” Sheena worries, but Rhonda hisses.

“You’re a grown man, Harold, it’s just a made-up story!”

“It’s not that!” he argues, eyes wide. He actually looks perturbed, and Arnold’s starting to worry a bit himself. “I seriously keep hearing something, and it’s freaking me out!” 

“Where’s it coming from, Harold?” Arnold asks, trying to be helpful. 

“Back there, behind me, toward the edge of the forest -- ”

“Perhaps we should continue the story inside,” Phoebe suggests in a small voice, and Helga stands up, marching over to the other side of the circle.

“It’s probably just a fox or a wildcat -- ”

“Foxes don’t sound like people, Helga!” 

“Actually, there are quite a few woodland creatures known to make some human-like sounds,” Phoebe explains, but Harold’s insistent.

“I swear, Phoebe, I know what I heard, and that was a _person_ \-- ”

“I haven’t heard anything,” Sid offers, but Stinky is shaking his head.

“I been hearin’ stuff, but I figured it was just the natural noises of nature.” 

Arnold grabs a flashlight and strides over to where Harold had been sitting, swinging it around casually. “Here, why don’t a couple of us go check it out? Would that make you feel better, Harold?”

“Wait, I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Eugene frets, leaning on his walking cane. 

“There’s no Goatman, Eugene,” Nadine groans, but Sheena’s chewing her inner cheek.

“I’m more worried about a wolf or a bear finding you -- are you sure this area is safe, Rhonda?”

“Oh come on, you guys, we had this place checked out yesterday, it’s fine!” the hostess groans, scornfully. 

“Look, how about we all take a pause,” Gerald says, slurring his words a bit, “Shuffle back inside, and a couple of us go check the perimeter, just for peace of mind. M’kay?” 

Harold, Sid, and Sheena practically dart for the lodge, piling onto the couch with Eugene, and the rest of them arm themselves with flashlights and head back outside. He’s not sure if it’s just the paranoia rubbing off on him, but Arnold feels goosebumps along his arms, a trickle of fear shooting up his spine when they reach the edge of the patio. It’s getting even darker out here. 

“If it’s a fox, or something like that, it’ll leave us alone,” Arnold tells them.

“And if it’s a bear?” Curly asks, morbidly curious. 

“Then we’re fucked,” Helga smirks, and the rest of them chortle, but then a shadow of something flickers across Phoebe’s face. She gasps, harshly.

“Did you see that?” 

“See what, babe?” 

She stumbles a step backward, back onto the upper deck, clutching her flashlight.

“There was something moving, just out of the thicket, over there.” 

“What was it?” Rhonda asks, her face paling. 

“Probably an _animal_ , like I said,” Helga insists. “Look, Arnold and I can go check it out, you guys go back in. If I scream, don’t come outside.”

“Helga, are you sure that’s a…?” Arnold laughs a little bit, albeit uncomfortably, but she waves a hand, dismissive. 

“It’s fine. We’ll be right back.” 

Without further argument, the four others scatter back inside, leaving Arnold alone with Helga once again, hope leaping in his chest. He trots closely behind her, keeping up with the strides of her long legs, eyeing the bandage on her thigh. 

Out of concern, purely, he checks on her. “How’s it feeling? Your cut.”

“A little sore, but it’s okay,” she replies, pushing a low-hanging branch out of the way. “I’m just glad the slit in my dress is on the opposite side. Talk about luck.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, distantly. Leaves and debris crunch beneath his sneakers, the decay of the bark surrounding giving off a familiar scent, dried sap and cedarwood. The embers of a dying bonfire. It’s chilly, for a night in August, and Arnold’s lungs expand with a cooler air that makes him almost shiver. It’s dry out here, nothing like the Peruvian or the Amazon, the chitter of rabbits and screeching of owls almost foreign to him. Helga was right, it does feel much like a playground now, but only because he’s here with her. 

He thinks of other times just like this, when Helga had covertly curated situations where the two of them would have little choice other than to partner up and tackle whatever obstacle they’d faced at the time. Navigating the cave of Wheezin’ Ed, the bio-square experiment, performing in Romeo and Juliet, the trip to San Lorenzo. Times he’d been oblivious, indifferent, or even annoyed to be stuck with her, hating how little he knew then that those times would be amongst the most precious of his childhood memories. 

Perhaps it’s foolish to believe this could be another one of those times. Another one of her schemes. 

But then he thinks about the vintage locket, conveniently resting next to her pills. He snorts. 

Talk about luck, alright.

“What’re you sniveling about back there?” she jokes with him, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Just thinking,” he says. “Helga...do you remember San Lorenzo?”

Helga stops in front of him, stiffening. She almost drops her flashlight. With a heaving breath, she scuttles forward, putting another foot or two of space between them. “Of course, Arnold. How could I forget? I’m the one who saved your parents, after all.” 

He chortles, following her a little further between the trees. Something rustles in the bushes close by, but he can’t see what it is. 

“How are they, by the way?” she asks him, a little softer. 

“They’re great,” he says, happily. “They’re thinking of coming back here, actually. To the city.” 

“Really?” She turns around this time, eyes wide and, if he’s not kidding himself, hopeful. 

“Yeah. Just thinking about retirement. And they miss Grandma and Grandpa,” he says, fully intending to finish with that, but his mouth would move too quickly. “And you.”

Helga swallows, visibly, a glassy look in her eyes. “Me?”

Her mouth twitches in an awkward smile that makes her look like a kid again, makes his heart hurt. He doesn’t even notice the louder, closer rustling in the bushes. 

“They still think of me?” 

“Of course they do,” he tells her, gently. His eyes water just the slightest bit. “Helga, I...”

Creak. The sound of bark peeling and a snap, a loud crack. Helga gasps, whirling around and waving her flashlight, her back against his chest. His hands move on reflex, grabbing onto her arms, and he gulps. The curve of her biceps flex right under his palms. She’s slightly taller than him, so his nose is right next to the nape of her neck, the flowery scent of her perfume lingering. If she can feel his frantic heartbeat, he has a great excuse -- there’s some horrific noise like a coyote panting, and it’s then that Arnold sees them -- 

Footprints. And they aren’t either of theirs, tracking south to the edge of the forest.

In the split second it takes for Helga to notice them, she lets out a shriek that could break glass, leaping into Arnold’s arms and they book it back toward the lodge. He might be a little crazy, but he swears he can hear someone -- something behind him. A rasping, distressing staccato of breaths that he’d recognize as familiar if he weren’t so startled. 

Several of their friends’ faces are plastered against the windows, watching them anxiously as they plough their way back inside. Rhonda leaps at the door, slamming the plank blockade over it as everyone else wails and screeches in their drunken stupor and paralyzing childish fear. 

“What happened out there?!” Gerald demands, sloshing his beer around. “What’d you see?!”

Desperately trying to catch his breath, Arnold makes an attempt to calm himself, waving his hands as Helga dives for a glass of water. 

“Somebody -- somebody’s out there, but I don’t know who -- ”

The room dissipates into panicked whispers and cries of paranoia. Phoebe opens her mouth to speak, but a deafening knock at the door would prevent that. 

“No fuckin’ way,” Sid mutters, cowering behind the couch. 

“Who the fuck?” Gerald whispers, looking bewildered at Arnold, who shrugs, eyes wide.

“I have no idea,” he says, genuinely disturbed. Helga scrambles around the kitchen island, opening drawers and cabinets in a frenzy.

“What are you _doing_ , Helga?!” Rhonda whisper-yells at her. 

“Getting a weapon, _Rhonda_ ,” Helga bites back. “What if it’s some psycho serial killer out there?”

“It might just be a drunk homeless dude,” Stinky offers. Much more likely, but Arnold steps over to her side. 

“Stinky’s right, but we should be cautious, just in case.” 

“You’re not seriously gonna open the door, are you, Arnold?” Eugene quivers. Henry is whimpering and whining, scuttling around the living area with his teeth bared. 

“ _Let me in_ ,” comes a garbled voice, just outside the walls. Everyone starts chattering and yelping like a litter of puppies, but Arnold has a hopeful feeling. He looks back at Helga, large cutting knife in a vice grip, then to Sheena, biting on her fingernails. 

“Sheena, in the event that this _is_ a homeless man…”

“I have a couple case workers I can call, fast responders,” she says, nodding vigorously, phone in hand. 

Rhonda scrunches up her nose. “What, not the police?”

“Fuck the police,” Helga grunts, leaping over the counter. “We’ve progressed past the need of the police.”

“Yeah, I don’t care who’s outside,” Gerald says, hugging Phoebe close to him, “we ain’t callin’ no cops.”

“What if it _is_ some crazy psychopathic murderer?” Curly suggests, half-joking, and Harold barks out a nervous laugh.

“So what? Helga’s got a knife, we’re fine!” 

“Let me in,” the voice says again, louder and clearer this time, but no less distorted. It _must_ be some poor, lost homeless man, Arnold thinks rationally, but it doesn’t make him any less afraid. 

Cautiously, he inches toward the door, beckoning Helga and Harold closer to him. He glances at Sheena and she nods, ready to hit that speed-dial, and with one shaking hand, he pushes the barricade out of the way and unlocks the door. 

As soon as he gets it ajar, the room explodes into chaos. Sid screams first, and that sets off Helga, which sets off everyone else, nobody thinking to actually look at who’s standing under the porch light. Arnold sighs, rubbing his forehead and smiling apologetically at the scraggly-bearded, bespectacled guy waving hello at him. 

“Oh, Arnold, it’s you!” he says, smiling back.

Arnold calls for a calm, yelling at everyone to quiet down, and in a swift motion, their eyes all turn to him. A single, unanimous groan of “BRAINY?” and then the air goes stagnant in the room. 

“Hey guys,” he waves to them, suitcase in one hand. 

“Man, I’ve heard of fashionably late, but you are LATE!” Gerald scolds him, groaning.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Traffic was pretty bad for a Wednesday,” he explains, rolling his luggage inside. He glances around, gaze settling on Helga. “Uh. What’s with the knife?” 

“We thought you were a murderer,” Curly laughs, taking another swig of his drink. 

“Sorry, Brian,” Helga says, so gently it startles Arnold. He lifts a brow, watching her pull him in for a hug. “We were telling stories and we kinda just -- got carried away. We’re all kinda wasted. You want a drink?”

“Sure,” he says, and little conversations spout and spread across the room, calm once again. “Where should I put my stuff?” 

Rhonda shows him to one of the bedrooms, and Helga fixes her eyes on Arnold, crossing her arms. 

“You look a little ‘sus, hair-boy,” she says slyly. She tilts her head, grinning. “What’s up?”

“N-Nothing,” he says quickly, face getting hot again. “Nothing, I just -- I’ve just never seen you treat him so...gently.” 

“What, you jealous?” she jokes around, and his pulse quickens, but then her face gets a little serious. “I’m kidding. I did grow out of _some_ things, Arnold.” 

“But not everything,” he teases, and to his delight, she concedes, touching him lightly on the arm before going off to put the knife away.

“No, not everything.”

***

“...and this is from Olga’s wedding, a couple years ago. We were in the bridal party, if the matching dresses didn’t give it away.”

Helga swipes her forefinger across the screen of her tablet. There’s a whole sofa’s worth of room, but she and Arnold are cozied into the corner seat, fireplace crackling, a quilt older than either one of them draped across their laps. Their thighs are touching. 

Every few seconds, the hand that’s not holding his beer graces her knee, like a natural impulse -- until he remembers himself, it seems, and pulls it back. He leans on her shoulder, though, and this goes unnoticed by anyone else. Granted, the only other people in the living area are Rhonda and Harold, bickering over by the kitchen island about who knows what now. It’s late, way past midnight, and the others are either out in the tent, or upstairs in one of the bedrooms, leaving them essentially alone. 

She doesn’t know what spurred the trip down memory lane, but going through old photos is fun when it’s with someone who’s lived through an unorthodox teenage experience. Once she’d finished showing him a few humbling prom photos, she came across the pictures from Olga’s wedding -- an album she wasn’t keen on revisiting for a multitude of reasons, but Arnold gets excited about them, so here they are. 

She pinches her fingers to blow up the next image; a sweet candid of herself with Lila, laughing and hugging in the gardens behind Saint Anthony’s. 

“This is...huh, this is when I started dating Lila again, actually,” she remarks, devoid of any feeling. Arnold perks his head up, lifting a brow.

“You asked her out at your sister’s wedding?”

“I didn’t _plan_ on it, yeesh,” she says, scowling. “It just sort of happened that way. We were arguing about…” _About you_ , she almost trips on herself, but manages to make a save before he can even notice her hesitation. He’s a little drunk, thankfully, enough that she gets away with it. “...something, I don’t remember, and, well. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah," he smiles. 

She flips through a few more from the album -- Lila and Olga, their arms around Brad, her husband. Helga and Lila, dancing. Helga and Lila, feeding each other cake. Smiling and laughing in their baby-pink dresses. The last one in the album is just her, Helga by herself. Standing in front of the floor-length mirror in the reception hall, Olga's veil atop her head. She remembers being drunk and trying it on, just to see what it looked like. _Because I'll never be a bride_ , she'd said to Olga. 

Arnold makes a small noise next to her. Pressing himself closer against her. “Did you ever think about it?”

She clenches her jaw. She knows what he’s doing. Rather than let him drag it out, she catches up to him first. “About what, getting married?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little taken aback. 

She smirks. "What, to you?" He can try to toy with her, but he’s forgetting who invented this game of emotions they play. 

He laughs a little bit. There’s only the slightest funk of beer on his breath. “So much for being subtle.” 

“Like you were trying.”

“Fair enough,” he yields. He takes a thoughtful pause, before hitting her with something unexpected. “Well, I did.”

Her pulse flutters. “You...did?” 

“Remember that time Rhonda brought a marriage predictor to school?” 

Her shoulders tense, blood pumping decidedly faster in her ears as she fumbles her way through a decidedly risky reply.

“Vaguely. What, did you take the quiz and have an existential crisis when it told you it’d be me?”

His eyes go wider. He re-adjusts next to her, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” she says quickly. 

She closes the current album and opens up another one, the last remnants of their time at P.S. 118. Their first class photo with Miss Slovak is the first picture. There they are, seated next to each other in accordance with the alphabet. Pataki and then Shortman. He’s smiling, she’s not. The date is scribbled at the bottom-right -- 1996. 

“You must have been mortified.”

“I made Rhonda re-do it about a hundred times, almost,” he says, but he doesn’t laugh even though it’s admittedly pretty funny. She swipes her middle finger and the next photo is from a field trip to the zoo. They’re standing next to each other again. “Anyway. I had the craziest dream that night, because of it.”

“Yeah?” she pretends not to know, swiping through more photos. An aquarium visit, Eugene’s ninth birthday, bug-catching in Tina Park. Coach Wittenburg and the boys’ swimming team. The first group photo at Geraldfield. He’s right by her side in every one of them. 

“Yeah,” says Arnold. Smiling at every picture. She wonders if he’s noticed, too. “You tricked me into marrying you somehow.”

“Sounds like me.” 

Mr. Simmons’ second or third day teaching. The county fair, everyone in the class gathered around Stinky’s pumpkin. Rhonda’s Halloween party from that year. Arnold sets his drink on the coffee table by their feet.

“It wasn’t all bad, though,” he goes on. He tucks his chin into her shoulder and she doesn’t have the heart to shove him away. He’s so warm. “I barely remember it, except for the end. You were trying to tell me you really cared about me.”

Helga snorts. “Was that it?”

“Well -- yeah?”

“Well that’s anti-climactic,” she says, calmly though her nerves are going haywire. “No fanciful gondola ride down the Tiber or steamy sandwich-sharing make-out session in a hot-air balloon?”

Arnold pulls away, then, aghast. He tilts his head. “That’s...oddly specific, what, was that how you imagined our wedding?”

“N-No!” she stutters, flipping through a few more pictures. She passes over that year’s school dance, the go-kart race, the Cheese Festival. “I just -- might have had a couple deranged dreams about you, too, way back then.”

“Sounds a lot more exciting than mine.” It’s obvious bait, but she manages to brush it off. 

“I had a hyperactive imagination.” 

They come upon the snapshots from their production of Romeo and Juliet, and that’s when Helga feels a sucker-punch to the gut. Herself, and Arnold, wrapped in silks and pin-tucked velvet, rouge caked on their tiny faces. Their tiny hands joined together in holy palmers’ kiss. Arnold isn’t looking, though. Not at the photos nor at her, fixated on a spot on the wall instead. Distant look in his cloudy eyes. 

He cozies against her arm again and she goes rigid, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. His voice is so soft in her ear, breath warm on her cheek. Her heart lodges itself in her throat.

“I imagined getting married in the jungle, myself, the times I did think about it,” he tells her. A dreaminess in his voice, like it’s coming from far away, although he’s right here. (right here.) “In the temple of the Green Eyes. Only if I were marrying you, though. Otherwise, I had no idea, but, yeah, I wanted it to be at the shrine, at the altar of the Corazón. It wasn’t an elaborate fantasy or anything, just something I thought was special. Just for you and me. Sorry, that must be kinda boring, now that I say it. Helga?”

“Yeah?” she hears herself say. It’s a tiny squeak of a sound, the peep of a bird. 

“Are you okay?” he asks her. It’s then she feels the tears, simmering in the corners of her eyes. She hoists herself up off of the sofa, breath hitching in her chest.

“Oh I’m fine! I just -- hoo, geez, all that bonfire smoke just really irritated my eyes, that’s all, sorry. Must be allergic. Um. I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick, I’ll be right back. Save my seat, okay? Don’t want anyone to steal you while I’m gone.”

Jesus Christ, she knows better than to joke like that, to smile at him like that. He eats right into it, his teeth bared in a sultry grin, eyes wilting as he stares up at her. 

“You won’t have to worry about that, Helga.” 

_He’s still in love with you_ , Lila’s voice echoes in the cavernous recess of her mind. She practically jogs to the bathroom, sinking against the door as soon as she gets it shut behind her. _He’s still in love with you_. 

_Don’t feed it_ , she warns herself, glowering at her own reflection. _You know better, Helga, don’t feed it. It’ll bite back._

_It always bites back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * story elements taken from the [goatman creepypasta](https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Anansi%27s_Goatman_Story)  
> * i'm not a camper, nor am i someone who's been to very many cabins on vacation, i apologize if any descriptors seem off or unrealistic :')  
> * went with the popular fan theory that brainy's real name is brian. anyone who doesn't have a canon last name though (nadine, sheena, etc) i tried to shy away from mentioning as i don't wanna be bothered deciding on a name, LOL  
> * acab :)


	5. thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "nothing about loving you is easy, pataki."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy early birthday, arnold :') 
> 
> an emotional chapter for an emotional day. to the show that taught me how to yearn, to allow myself to sit with disappointments, to love undaunted, to look on the bright side -- cheers. to twenty-four years. i don't know how i would have grown up without you.

“Rise and shine, Sleepin’ Beauty!”

Arnold groans, shielding his eyes with the crook of his elbow as Gerald yanks the blankets off of him with a whoosh. The sunlight glares through the bay windows, the smell of bacon and maple syrup wafting through the air. 

“Gerald,” he mutters. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine, c’mon man, you better grab some food before Harold cleans up shop.” 

“How did you sleep, Arnold?” Phoebe asks him, cheery and bright-eyed. She moves around the kitchen with Gerald, floats between the coffee brewer and the sink. Arnold rubs his left eye, half-smiling.

“Like a rock, to be honest. I must have passed out right here.” 

“Yeah, you must’ve,” Gerald starts wryly, winking at his almost-wife. “You were down here talkin’ to Helga all night.”

Arnold bolts upright. “I was what?” 

“Yeah,” he affirms, casually. “We went up around midnight, but you guys were still down here.” 

His heart begins to race, so quick it makes him dizzy. Right, he’d passed out down here in the living room. Everyone was watching Gerald’s old WeTube videos, and somehow that turned into going through old photos. He’d been cozied up to Helga, dangerously close to sitting on her lap as she swept through her old posts on social media. They must have talked for so long, they’d fallen asleep down here. Next to each other on the pull-out sofa. He swallows. He stands up a little too quickly, hand pressed to his temple as he moves to sit on one of the barstools.

“Arnold, are you alright?” Phoebe frets, setting a plate of food in front of him. “You were drinking quite a bit last night, you might be a bit hungover.” 

“No, it’s not that. You guys, I...” he hesitates, looking anxiously between the two. Gerald leans over the kitchen island, sipping orange juice, and Phoebe moves to pour him a cup of coffee, listening intently. “I...I found something in Helga’s bag, yesterday, when she fell.”

Gerald makes a face. “You went digging through her stuff?”

“No!” Arnold explains. “No, she asked me to find her something for her headache, and I just…”

His throat tightens, struggling to find the words. He breathes out an empty laugh, hands shaking as he wrings them together.

“Do you…Do you remember the locket she had?”

Phoebe nearly drops the steaming mug, hissing an “ouch!” when a little splash of hot coffee burns her hand. Gerald grabs a washcloth for her, forehead creasing with an incredulous stare.

“Locket? Like, THE locket? Dinky little heart-shaped thing with your picture in it?”

“The thing that woke up my parents, yeah,” comes his terse affirmation, a little defensive. Gerald almost spits out a mouthful of bacon, choking on laughter.

“Oh you gotta be _shittin’_ me, Arnold -- seriously?! She still has that thing?”

Phoebe shoots him a dark look, but looks a little rattled herself. “Are you sure it was the same one?”

Arnold takes a deep breath in. “I'm sure. My picture from sixth grade and all.”

“Wow,” she says quietly. It’s hardly a peep. She looks flabbergasted, brows raised high into her bangs. “Um, well, goodness, Arnold. I’m a little speechless.”

“Yeah, well, me too,” he says, chewing on his thumb. He takes the cup from Phoebe before she can burn herself again. 

“Man. Goddamn, Pataki,” Gerald pulls himself together, humming over the rim of his glass. “Over it, my ass.”

“I’m guessing neither of you knew?” 

“I had no idea,” Phoebe says, frowning. She looks to Gerald for reinforcements, and he shakes his head, shrugging. 

“Nope. She got rid of all her...stuff years ago, right when you broke up. Threw everything away.” 

The thought of that shouldn’t sting as much as it does. A little Helga, dumping away all her notebooks, the half-melted candles, the used-gum doll. He chortles, bitterly. Taking a short sip of coffee. “Missed something, apparently.” 

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for this,” Phoebe mutters, unhelpfully, though he appreciates her trying. 

“Yeah, like she’s still in love with you,” Gerald suggests, equally unhelpfully. She smacks him on the ass and he gurgles. 

“Helga is a very sentimental person,” she offers, evenly. “It doesn’t surprise me that she’s kept it after all this time, but...I can’t discern whether or not it truly means anything, unfortunately.” 

“But it was stuffed in there, in the medicine pocket, just so...deliberately,” he tells them. He can feel his voice cracking. “Like she wanted me to find it.” 

“Maybe she did,” Gerald shrugs. Phoebe gives him another warning look, but that doesn’t stop him. “Hey, she _was_ kinda flirting with you all night. Maybe it’s a sign.” 

“For what?” Arnold asks himself more than the others. 

“That you should _talk to her_ ,” Gerald groans, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I can’t just corner her and accuse her of -- whatever I’m accusing her of -- ”

“I’unno what else you want me to say, my man,” his friend sounds defeated. “When was the last time you relied on Helga to come to _you_ about her feelings? If you wanna know so bad, you gotta weedle it outta her. I told you -- some shit don’t change!” 

“Gerald does make a fair point, Arnold,” says Phoebe, patting his hand. “It’s obvious there’s some...unresolved tension, between the two of you. Regardless of her current situation, perhaps it would be beneficial for you both to…”

She trails off. The front door swings open with a soft creak, and in walks the woman herself, sweaty and panting and covered in grease. Her cheeks are pink, hair bouncing in a messy bun at the top of her head as she crosses the kitchen, digging in the fridge. She’s still in her shorts from yesterday, but no hoodie, just the pink sports bra. There’s a swipe of grime just across her nose. Arnold’s stomach drops to his knees.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she says to the three, observing. She grabs an apple and takes a generous bite. The crunch is loud enough to startle him. “Something happen?” 

“Nothing!” Phoebe says, all-too quickly, but thankfully Helga seems too distracted to pry. She takes another bite and grabs the jug of orange juice. “Erm -- how are the repairs coming along?”

“Oh it’s fine, Curly just needed his brakes tightened,” she shrugs. “So. What’s your plan for today?”

“Watering hole,” Gerald says, and she makes a face. “What, you don’t wanna come?”

“Why would I dive into a smelly little swamp when there’s a deluxe bubble-jet jacuzzi out back?”

“Come on, Helga G.,” he says affectionately, ribbing her, and she giggles. It makes Phoebe giggle, too. “Whassamatter, you don’t like getting dirty anymore?”

“Oh yeah, obviously not,” she oozes sarcasm, a wild gesture at her own grease-stained face. “I’m a mechanic for the glamour of it all.” 

Some awkward noise bubbles and bursts in Arnold’s throat, and with difficulty, he swallows down his coffee, liquid burning the whole way down. Helga lifts a brow.

“You okay?”

“You’re a mechanic?” he sputters, coughing into his elbow. 

Gerald massages his forehead with a dramatic roll of the eyes, and Phoebe leads him out of the kitchen, likely far away from whatever nonsense is sure to happen now that he’s gone and opened his mouth. 

“Oh, yeah,” she says, if a bit awkward, shifting on the spot. “Amazing use of my English degree, I know. What, is it weird?” 

“N-No, of course not, it’s just, uh,” he mutters, “I don’t know, just surprising, I guess. I hadn’t imagined you getting involved in such...physical work.”

He gulps on those last two words, eyes trailing over her bare midriff, just for a moment. He’s careful not to linger there for too long, but it seems she’s already noticed. Her eyes narrow. She leans a tad too far over the counter, leaving no less than three inches between them. Even with the motor oil smeared across her face, she still smells sublime, like cinnamon. 

“Well, as I’m sure you remember, Arnold,” she says, smoothly, lowering her voice. Her lips wrap around the apple again as she takes a slow, deliberate bite. “I’m a pretty _physical_ person.” 

Arnold’s breath hitches. He thinks his heart has just tripped over itself, making awkward _th-thunks_ the longer he looks into her too-blue eyes. Before he can fully process their dangerously close proximity, or the brazenness of her flirtatious words, she laughs, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

“S-Sorry, Arnold, that was mean.” She edges away, slipping her gloves off to wash her hands in the sink. An excuse not to look directly at him, he imagines. 

He wants to assure her that it’s fine -- more than, but before sparks of a different kind can start flying, he clears his throat. 

“So you’re, um -- not gonna go with everyone else?” 

“Nope.” Helga dabs at her face with a clean cloth, wiping the dirt from her face. “I like dirty, but not backwoods-pond-water dirty. Who knows what’s swimming in that filth. Yuck.” 

“Yeah, I thought about that too,” he says, levelly, sipping his coffee, “I don’t think I’m gonna go, either.”

Helga looks at them then, brows furrowed. “No? What’re you gonna do instead?” 

“I dunno,” he says casually. “Maybe hike further up the mountain. Or go fishing. There’s that canoe, down in Rhonda’s shed. Maybe I’ll just go on an adventure.” 

“What, go rowing out on the bay, all by yourself?” she mocks him, arms folded across her chest. 

“Yeah. Unless,” he says smoothly, lifting his eyebrows, “you wanna come with?”

She squawks out a laugh, or something that sounds like one, clutching the counter for balance. “An _adventure_? With _you_?”

***

Fuck, she swears under her breath. You’d think a girl would learn.

The others had gone off to dip their feet in swamp water, and if she were smarter or less selfish or just a better person in general, she would have joined them. But when Arnold had asked her, just her, if she wanted to go on an _adventure_ , as he so _Arnold-ly_ put it, she said yes. Like a terrible person. Because no matter how old she’s become, or much she thinks she’s changed, Helga is still Helga. And Helga never says no to Arnold Shortman. 

The water is crystal clear. The slithering, silver bodies of fish glimmer just below the surface, ghostly tendrils of kelp and river-lettuce flutter and float by. She can hear every ripple, every splash of the ores as they row across the lake, just them and the rock doves singing overhead in the open, muggy air. 

It’s almost surreal, how utterly alone they are in the tranquility of the wilderness, miles away from the places they call home. Dreamlike. A fantasy pulled straight from one of her old poetry books, like something she used to imagine to get through her loneliest days. 

All they really do is talk. About their friends, their jobs, creative endeavors. Failures and funny things, things they’ve accomplished and didn’t. Disappointments, and hardships. Everything and nothing, trying to fill each other in on a lifetime’s worth of stories with just this stolen moment, this breezy August morning she’s so selfishly claimed. Borrowed time, from whom, she’s not so sure anymore. Arnold smiles at her, glaring sun haloing about his magnificent head, and she feels her resolve steadily peeling away. 

“What,” he asks her, slowing his movements. His big arms stretch and flex beneath his rolled-up linen sleeves and it takes far too much effort to keep her eyes from lingering there. 

“Nothing,” she spurts, easing up on the paddling. Lets her eyes wander around, up toward the cliffs. “Just thinking.” 

That’s a bad idea, saying that aloud. Such words can’t be said around Arnold. He’ll poke and pry and coax it out of her, no matter what it is. She always lets him. Long ago she’d started to hope he would. 

And so he does. “What about?” 

“You,” she says, looking back into the water. Watching the seaweed dance. A little box turtle swims out from under the boat and comes to rest on a rock nearby. “How little you’ve changed.”

When he doesn’t say anything, she faces him, watching him watch her with a curious eye. He’s smiling, just barely. Like he’s waiting to hear more. She’ll indulge him, against her better judgement. They paddle on, coming under low-hanging willows. 

“It’s just funny, is all,” she starts. Feeling her eyes water. “Sixteen years and you’re still the same Arnold.” 

“Yeah?” he says, shifting a little. His smile splits a little wider. “That’s funny. I think you’re still the same Helga.”

She snorts, laughing a little. He seriously thinks it’s a compliment, and that’s just as well, but that doesn’t stop the words from stinging. “God, I hope not.”

“How come?”

“Come on, Arnold, you need reminding?” she says, embarrassed. “I was a terror, a total nightmare of a kid. I was awful.”

_Especially_ to you, she doesn’t say, because it shouldn’t need to be said. If he’d meant that to be praise, maybe she should. She doesn’t, though, just feels a little confused, uneasy. 

He looks a little dismayed himself, frowning at her from across the way. He slows his rowing, fixated on her. “That’s not the Helga I remember.” 

She slows down as well, forcing herself to smile, giggle a little bit. Ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. “You need to get that football-head of yours checked, then, I think your memory might be fucked.”

“I’m serious, Helga,” he says, frowning. “You were witty, and funny, and devoted, and loyal...only difference is now you...let it show.”

“Yeah, well -- it’s amazing what therapy can do,” she writes him off, a blush creeping its way up her neck. Her organs are swimming, sloshing around like flounder in the lake. This conversation could take a dangerous turn, depending on what he says next, but she could thank her lucky stars that he leaves it at a quiet, simple utterance -- 

“I’m happy for you, Helga.” 

He’s finally smiling again, but it does nothing to comfort her. His voice is too quiet, wavering the slightest bit, eyes downcast. There’s no warmth in his words. Empty praise, like he spoke against his own will, or stopped himself from saying something else. She averts her eyes, gazing instead at the swarm of grey clouds gathering overhead. 

A drizzle of rain sprinkles across her lap, spattering dark spots along the length of her petal-pink dress. 

“Oh, shit,” she groans. There’s a stretch of lake the length of a football field between them and the docks. 

“We’re not gonna make it,” Arnold laughs. 

“It’s alright, just paddle -- maybe we can pull in before it gets bad,” she insists, but it’s already coming down harder. They pick up an impressive speed, but it quickly proves pointless to rush it. Thunder cracks overhead and within seconds, the sky splits open, drenching them both long before they reach the shore.

Helga laughs first. She actually thinks she might hold out longer than he’ll be able to, but then that idea in itself is funny, and that’s what makes her snort. When she does, she looks at him, and he looks back at her, and she wheezes, exploding into a cackle that finally makes him double over. They have to take a pause from rowing, just to get their composure together enough to make the rest of the trip back in one piece. It’s so funny that it’s sad, so sad that it comes full circle back to hilarity. God Himself must be laughing at her. At both of them. 

They manage to dock the canoe, making a mad dash for the Lloyds’ boatshed for cover even though they’re both sopping wet, now. They laugh the whole way, hands clasped tight together, and when they reach the shed, they hover in the doorway to watch the streams of rain run off the edge of the scaffolding. 

“You okay?” he asks her, once they catch their breath. He wrings the water out of his blue button-down, watching her do the same to her dress. The linen sticks to him, completely see-through. She can see every ridge of muscle, the dip of his lower abdomen, and what looks to be a tattoo. A delicate script, in a language she can’t decipher, right above his heart. She swallows. 

This is bad. It was bad ten minutes ago, when it was just them in a shabby canoe on a sparkling lake, but now it’s super-bad. Now they’re not just alone, they’re _wet_ and alone in a tiny abandoned shed and Arnold is looking at her Like That and it’s Terrible. This is no longer a test of patience. This is a sign. A billboard-sized glaring neon sign. _You Lose, Pataki!_

But she can’t just quit. She’s been doing so well, barricading all these feelings -- holding the cages closed on all her rabid demons. They’re screaming, clawing at the iron bars, but she can’t feed them. She’s tossed them enough crumbs. 

“Yeah,” she finally answers, stomach churning. She pats her shoulder bag to make sure the contents haven’t been water-damaged, the squeak of her wet shoes the only sound between them for a good minute, until Arnold breaks the silence. 

“Why did you break up with me?”

Her eyes snap up to meet him. He looks crestfallen, the ghost of a laugh on his face as he inches toward her, his breathing staggered. Helga freezes like she’s been smote. 

“You never -- you never gave me an explanation,” he almost whines. He sounds much like he did the night she woke up his parents, eyes wide and watery. Oh, she’s doomed. She’s definitely going to lose. “It was just so -- so sudden, out of nowhere.” 

“Arnold,” she says, apprehensively. She takes a step backward. He takes two closer. 

“It just didn’t make sense. I mean, I know I wasn’t perfect, but I still don’t understand. Why’d you do it?” 

“Arnold, please don’t do this,” she begs him, because that’s all that’s left. At his mercy, once again. She laughs through it, tears streaming down her wet face. She thinks she’s going to be sick.

“Why not?” He looks so pained. Beyond exhaustion. She hates that she did this to him, that she’s the reason why. 

“Because we’re just friends -- ”

She can barely get the words out before his fist hits the wall behind her. She yelps, grimacing as his voice falls to a heavy grate, a growl she’s never heard, one she can’t stand to admit makes her tremble.

“You and I were never meant to be just friends.” He’s got her back against the wall, wind and rain blowing harshly through the open doorway. It’s not very cold, but she’s shivering head to toe, anxious and mortified and nauseous and, shamefully, extremely turned on. “You know, Gerald used to tell me -- people like us are meant to either hate each other, or fall hopelessly in love -- and you know I could never hate you, Helga.”

“Oh really?” she counters, anger flaring up, “Well you did a great job proving that, Football Head! You didn’t speak to me for years!”

“You broke my heart,” he bites back. There’s a poignant emphasis on every word, each one driving in one metaphorical knife after the other. He looks wounded, deeply so, and just like that, her anger melts away. Replaced with the dull ache of her regret. “You pulled the floor out from under me -- ”

“I was fourteen!” she yells back at him, as if that’s any justification. She knows it isn’t. Even at the time, she knew. The rattling at the far back of her mind is getting louder. “You were halfway across the globe and I had no idea when you were coming back -- ”

“I would have waited for you,” he tells her, a little quieter, but she shouts at him again.

“I didn’t want you to!” 

“Why,” he asks her, calm but demanding, and she sniffles. Wipes her eyes, but the tears don’t stop. God, she’s such a mess. He’s right, she really hasn’t changed. 

“Because I wasn’t worth waiting for,” she confesses. And as she does so, she hears the crash of a wall coming down, the breaking of chains. The voices in her head mumble and whisper. She can see a light flicker in the dark of Arnold’s eyes. “I was _awful_ to you, Arnold. I was cold, and u-ungrateful, and nasty, and i-impatient -- you were nothing but kind to me and all I did was sh-shove you away. I didn’t even know how to talk to you, for Christ’s sake! Why would I ever expect you to wait for me? Tell me!”

She’s trembling. Not for fear of blowing her cover -- she hasn’t done that yet, miraculously. Against all odds, she’s still behind the metaphorical yellow line. Crumbling, but still mostly in one piece. Her last shield held steadily in place, until he says the one thing that shatters it.

“Because I loved you,” he tells her, simply. Gently. “I still do.”

Her heart comes close to stopping in her chest. She stops crying, eyes suddenly dry like someone’s turned a faucet off. She gapes at him, and he smiles like he’s just lifted a cement block off his shoulders. He breathes out the smallest laugh, eyes falling to the floor. 

“Helga...I found it,” he says, sheepish and guilty. She purses her lips, utterly befuddled. 

“What?”

“Your locket,” he answers, warily, a knot visible in his throat. “In your duffle bag. In the pocket with your aspirin, yesterday.”

Her heart drops. 

No way. There’s no way -- that locket is buried in an old shoebox somewhere, collecting dust under a pile of knitted blankets and withered journals, there’s no way it could possibly have gotten into --

“I thought you put it there on purpose, so that I would find it, but from the way you’re looking at me right now, I can tell that’s not the case,” he says, almost regrettably, “But even so…”

Another inch forward. He’s so close, now, sticky wet clothes pressed against her clammy skin. Close enough that she can’t tell if that’s his heartbeat hammering, or her own. 

“I can’t help but wonder,” he continues, in a hushed whisper of a voice, “that maybe you kept it because you still love me, too.”

_Of course I still love you_ , she screams internally. She has to willingly hold herself back from pouncing on him, shaking him by the shoulders. She can hear the voices of her friends, her own girlfriend, all talking at once -- 

_Aren’t you tired of lying to yourself?_

_Wanting to move on and actually moving on are two very different things._

_You don’t need to keep punishing yourself._

_Is just knowing enough?_

“Helga.” He says her name like a prayer. With such gentle grace, like it's sacred. His breathing is getting faster. They’re this close. She can count every speckle of gold in the jade of his irises, every freckle across the bridge of his nose. His pulse is just visible in the hollow of his throat. Every inch of him is trembling. “It’s true, isn’t it? You still want me...don’t you?”

_Yes, you do, don’t you?_ one other little voice would ask. One of the demons she’s let loose off its chain, howling and snarling and drooling hungrily. The most selfish, destructive part of her, desperate and vulnerable. Starving. Insatiable. And the world’s most delectable cut of meat is just dangling himself right in front of her. _Don’t feed it --_

“Helga,” he says again. His voice is dark, a deep, heavy rasp in her ear. “Please. I can see it in your eyes. You’re _dying_ to kiss me.”

_More than that_ , the little demon growls. A kiss wouldn’t be enough at this point -- she wants to devour him. She could swallow him whole and never have her fill. She clenches her fists so tightly she almost breaks the skin. 

“Please,” he barely breathes, “tell me I’m not crazy, please, tell me you still -- "

All the lights go out inside her head, all except one. That glaring neon sign. _You Lose, Pataki!_ And she would laugh, if she weren’t already kissing Arnold. The game is over. 

It’s over, and she’s never been happier to lose. 

She seizes a fistful of his sopping wet shirt, the whole of her brute strength propelled into one swift movement to pin him against the wall he’d backed her into. He groans into her mouth, a gasp or some other blasphemous noise escaping his throat the more deeply she kisses him. Helga shoves against him, hands wrapped around his neck and squeezing as his tongue slides across her bottom lip, begging for entry. She would grant it, gladly, the lingering taste of coffee dancing on her tongue. 

His hands find her waist and grasp the soaked fabric of her dress, bunching it in his fist. She can feel the blunt of his fingertips even through the cotton. He holds onto her like he can’t get close enough, like she was his anchor to the earth. She feels the heartbeat in his neck, rapid and desperate, the thumping of a frightened rabbit’s feet darting to escape a cruel fate. Helga almost smiles into the embrace. 

If he won’t let her hide, she won’t let him run. 

It doesn’t seem as though he wants to, anyway -- far from it, if his knee between her thighs is any indication (or at least, she thinks that’s still his knee). He’s so warm, practically radiating heat, the whole of his body tense and tightening beneath her. _Oh, God, Arnold_ , she might have sighed aloud. 

_Of course I still love you_ , she thinks. She knows she’s only thinking it because her teeth are sinking into his neck, now, sucking a bruise into his sensitive flesh. He whimpers, moaning, death-gripping her narrow waist. _I do, I do, oh I do -- everyone knows that I do, so what’s the point? We all know the truth, so why am I still trying to deny it?_

_Because you think you still need to punish yourself_ , she hears a voice say. A kinder, more patient voice. Her own, she imagines, from the before-times. Little nine-year-old Helga Pataki, hiding out in the pigeon coop on the rooftop of the Sunset Arms, on a rainy day just like today. Curled up with her knees to her chest, band-aid on her cheek. Locket in hand. 

With her lips still on Arnold’s skin, she wonders why she hates her so much. The little girl she was before. It wasn’t all her fault. She had a reason to be angry, a right not to trust anyone. _That’s not an excuse_ , she argues with herself, but the Helga from before grins at her. 

_He never blamed you_ , she says. _Not once_. 

Helga pulls herself off of him with great reluctance, breaths coming in short gasps, mingling with his. The rain has stopped, a stagnant, heavy air condensing around them in the musky, enclosed space. The walls feel like they’re closing in on her, suddenly. Her lungs constrict. He’s looking at her like she wields the key to Heaven’s Gate itself, like her kiss somehow breathed new life into him. The way his eyes sparkle is enough to make her swoon, and she does, that high-pitched tremble of a sigh leaving her throat just as the shrill tone of a phone ringing startles them both out of their stupor. 

It’s not the one in his satchel. It’s hers, vibrating in the front pocket of her purse. Shit. Arnold’s face goes white. Shitshitshit.

Lila.

***

When she darts out of the shed, Arnold makes no move to stop her. He just watches her, scrambling to find a voice to speak to her girlfriend with, the girlfriend she’d just cheated on. The girlfriend he’d just basically _asked_ her to cheat on. He could cry. He does, a little bit, shriveled up in the corner next to some dusty old fishing gear.

He sniffles, fumbling for his phone, hoping he has enough bars to connect one quick call. Three or four rings, and then someone picks up.

“Hey, Shortman,” a wavering, rasping little voice greets him. The tears start to burn just a little bit more.

“Hey, Grandpa.” 

“You don’t sound so good, kiddo,” his grandfather says. “Everything okay?” 

“I messed up, Grandpa,” he whimpers, wiping his eyes. “I just did something awful.” 

“Ohoho no, are you crying?” he chuckles, full of affection, and that just makes him choke out a heavier sob. “Aw, oh, you poor little fella, it can’t be that bad! C’mon, what happened?” 

“I kissed Helga,” he starts to explain. He hears an explosive noise on the other end of the line that he’s sure can’t be good for his ninety-something-year-old heart.

“What! Helga? Your first girlfriend? Cranky little thing used to sneak into our house all the time?” 

Arnold sighs, dejected, rubbing his temples. “Yes, Grandpa.”

“Well what’s wrong with that!”

“She’s taken, Grandpa. Not single.” 

“But she kissed ya back, didn’t she?” he murmurs furtively. 

“Well, yes, but -- ”

“Oh, boy, lemme guess,” he starts on. Arnold hears a flush of the toilet, the crinkling of a newspaper. He rolls his eyes, picking at the skin around his middle fingernail. “You showed up to this wedding and you saw her and then all those dormant feelings came flooding back and the two of you kept flirting with each other…”

He groans, his face in his hand. “Uh-huh…”

“And you know she’s seeing someone else but somethin’ doesn’t feel right, so you corner her to get her to tell you the truth. Am I getting warmer, Shortman?”

“Yup, yes, Grandpa,” he admits. 

“Well if I remember her as well as I think I do, I think she was gonna kiss you anyway, Shortman,” he wheezes, coughing a little bit. 

“Grandpa,” he tries to scold him, but he can’t help but smile. 

“We all make mistakes, Shortman,” he tells him, sincerely. “What really matters is whether or not ya take responsibility for ‘em.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, sniffling again. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“I know, hehehe.” 

“I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you too. And hey, Arnold…”

“Yeah?”

“She loves you, Arnold,” he says, a strain in his voice, like it was difficult for him to say. Arnold chews his lip, fresh tears falling down his cheek. “Ever since you two were little, I could tell. And if she’s really with someone else, she probably knows she’s got it wrong. You’ve laid it all out on the table, Shortman -- now let her come to you.”

Arnold snivels. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

“Don’t thank me, Arnold, just observing!” he croaks. 

A smile comes to him, finally. “Bye, Grandpa.”

“Bye-bye, Arnold.”

***

Curly drives her back to the hotel after her brief, awkward phone call with Lila, one she nearly hurls throughout the duration of. She doesn’t tell him what happened -- what she did, but she figures she doesn’t need to. He can probably guess. He doesn’t ask questions on the way back, except for what excuse to give everyone else when she inevitably doesn’t show up for dinner.

“Just tell them I got called back to the shop, or something,” she says. “I just need to be alone for a bit.” 

Lila isn’t there when she comes back to their room. All well and good, since she planned on fake-napping while she got her shit together in her head, but she actually winds up falling asleep for the whole of the evening. It’s well-after eight when she finally wakes up, checks her phone. Lila is still MIA, no sign of her even having been there at all the past few hours. It’s strange, they must have finished up at dinner by now, but she’s got other things to worry about. 

Like what the fuck she’s supposed to do now. 

She would laugh if it were happening to anyone else. Maid of honor, cheating on her significant other with the best man. What a cliche. Like something out of a book she might have written ten years ago, one with an exaggeratedly photo-shopped and semi-porny cover, tucked behind 50 Shades of Blue on the YA shelf at Books-A-Billion. 

(okay, maybe not that bad, but she still cheated.) 

She unpacks the duffel bag, fishing around the medicine pocket. Surely as the sun rises in the east, it’s there, the locket -- tucked away into the seam, next to her aspirin. 

“How the _hell_ did you get in there,” she asks no one, plucking it and cradling it in her palm. 

It had been so long since she’d last held it. It feels cold, rubbish gold-plating wearing away after so many years. The edges of Arnold’s old photo are so aged it’s yellowing, blending with the cornflower color of his hair. She’d switched the picture when they’d started dating and never changed it out. She smiles at it, brushing her thumb over the contours of his little face. It’s so light, she thinks, strangely so. She remembers it bearing much heavier a weight. 

(maybe all those feelings locked inside made it so.) 

She’d tossed everything away when she was young, right before high school began. The hardcover diaries, the bubblegum statue, the half-melted candles. The video tapes, the crumpled locker notes, the dried lemon-lilies. Anything with his handwriting, locks of his hair, items of his clothing she’d stolen. Everything even vaguely orzo-shaped that lay in her closet would meet the horrific fate of a trash compactor. 

Everything, except for one little necklace. 

_“I think your heart is more pure than you know.”_

She kept it as a reminder. Because often, she forgets. Even to this day, she isn’t sure she believes it --

But Arnold did. At least once. And believing in him was always so much easier than believing in herself. 

That was why she held onto it, carried it with her from one home to another. The first time she invited Lila to her apartment, she’d forgotten about it, laying on her dressing table amongst her hair barrettes and makeup. She was so embarrassed she’d cried, but Lila was gracious about it. About everything. If it made her jealous, she never said so. She never asked her to get rid of it, or even questioned why she still had it. Just helped her tuck it away into the closet when she’d asked. 

Helga chews on her lip, staring into eyes of emerald green. They’re so piercing, they almost seem to stare back. 

“Oh, Arnold, what do I do?” she asks the little golden locket. “What cruel fates make a mockery of my meager existence once again! This was NOT supposed to happen! I was never supposed to see you again -- you were never supposed to harbor those feelings, let alone CLING to them!” She shakes it, thumbs pressed into the curves of the heart. “I was FINE, y’know, content to live with my sins for the rest of my mediocre little life -- I had everything under control, until you cornered me soaking wet in that rickety little shed and ruined everything I worked so hard to... “

\-- and then she trails off, flopping flat against the mattress, the heart-shaped necklace clutched tight to her chest. She laughs, emptily. 

“God, listen to me, talking to you again like I’m nine. I’m too old for this, hair-boy.” 

She slips into a pair of joggers and slinks outside. There’s a quiet spot in the courtyard, close to one of the back entrances to the hotel, within view of the fountains. The noise of the spouting water is soothing, distracting. She’s about to light a cigarette when she hears a gruff of breath.

“Hey.”

She’s on her feet in seconds, whipping her head around so fast she slaps herself in the face with her ponytail. 

“JESUS, Brainy, I almost knocked you flat!”

“Sorry, Helga,” he apologizes, pushing his glasses farther up on his nose. He shrugs off his cardigan, drapes it over her shoulders. “Here, it’s kinda cold out here.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, flopping back down on the bench. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Just saw you sitting by yourself,” he shrugs, staring into the fountain. It’s littered with pennies and other old coins. He takes a seat next to her. “I dunno. Felt nostalgic. I half-expected to interrupt a monologue.” 

She chortles, relaxing. “Sorry to disappoint. You probably heard all of ‘em, anyway.” 

“Probably,” he agrees, and he laughs a little, too. 

“But you never told anybody, did you,” she says, realizing. “My best kept secret.” 

“I think Mai Hyunh holds that card,” says Brainy, gently, but smug. “Did you ever tell him about that?”

“No, I…” Helga’s throat tightens. “That one never made it to the table. I guess a lot of things didn’t.” 

“It’s not too late to tell him,” he says. “Everything.” 

“I can’t,” she whines, dolefully. “I shouldn’t. I don’t deserve to. I was awful to him, Brainy. My whole life, I’ve just made him miserable. Even today! He opened his heart to me and I -- I took advantage of him and ran, like a teenager! Arnold’s right, I haven’t changed at all!”

“You’re not a bad person, Helga,” Brainy tells her. There’s a tenderness in the humdrum of his voice. “You never were.”

“Says the kid I punched in the face on a daily basis for two years,” she laughs throatily, feeling once again like she’s going to cry.

“So you did some bad things. Doesn’t mean you’re irredeemable.” He nudges her ribs. “I know Arnold would agree.” 

“Arnold sees the best in everyone, and only the best,” she sniffles, wiping her nose on his sleeve. “That hardly counts.”

Brainy groans, stretching his arms high over his head, breathing out a patient chortle as he relaxes. “C’mon, Helga. Aren’t you a little too old for this game?” 

She blubbers, blinking away fresh tears. “Are you trying to get yourself clocked in the face?” 

“If it makes you feel better, be my guest. Black eye or not, I’m still right. He loves you.” 

Helga takes a beat, crossing her arms defiantly and huffing. She crosses one leg over her knee and grunts. “Even if that’s true -- ”

“It is.”

“ -- he lives on the other side of the world.”

“He’ll come back,” Brainy says. “You say the word, he’ll come back. Next slide.”

“Fine, there’s still Lila.”

“Lila?”

“Uh, my girlfriend?” she drones on. “There’s no way this ends without me completely fucking her over.” 

“Oh, honey,” he sighs, “she hasn’t been your girlfriend since you stepped off that elevator Monday morning. You know Gerald told her he was coming, right? He told her the day he got his R.S.V.P.”

Her face falls. She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again, closes it. Lifts a hand to her temple. He’s grinning something awful at her and she squints. 

“He _what_ ,” she says, hoarsely. “She knew?”

“Oh yeah,” he affirms plainly, shifting on the bench. “She knew all along. Actually, she’s been trying to break up with you all week.”

Helga springs up, dropping his sweater on the ground. “She _what_ \-- ?! Seriously?”

“Yup,” he nods, still grinning madly. “You’ve just been too distracted to notice.”

She chews her lip, hands on her hips as the volume of her voice starts climbing. “Well, why all this, then? Why not dump me before instead of letting this whole fiasco happen?”

“Oh, you know. The poetry of it all.” Brainy gets up too, picks his sweater up off the ground. He touches her shoulder, brushes the curtain of bangs out of her eyes. He looks so fondly at her, she could almost wonder if he were about to kiss her. 

He doesn’t, just traces his thumb along her cheek. Wiping away the last few tears. “Besides, you needed a lesson in being honest with yourself. She wasn’t gonna do the hard work for you.” 

Eyes burning, Helga buries her face in her hands, laughing through a scream -- or screaming through a laugh. She’s not sure which. It sounds horrible either way, muffled only by the crook of Brainy’s neck as he pulls her into a hug. 

“Feel better?”

Helga nods, still face-planted into his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Brian.”

She can feel the gust of his breath, his chest moving with a hollow laugh. “Whatever for.”

“Never loving you back,” she mutters, childishly, still hiding her face. “It could have been so easy, huh?”

He laughs a little more, squeezing his arms around her waist. “Nothing about loving you is easy, Pataki.” 

It’s true, but he shouldn’t say it. Especially not when all it does is make her smile when she least expects to. Not a harsh enough offense to warrant Ol’ Betsy coming out of retirement, but the Five Avengers make it far enough to curl against the pocket of his vest. “Fuck you, Brian.” 

He pecks her forehead, turning to leave. “Goodnight, Helga.”


	6. friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they look cute together. they really do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the events of friday will be divided in two bc i am unhinged. i was reaching over 11k and thought "no one is going to read all that in one sitting" so i'll upload the next part next week. enjoy some jealous arnold in the meantime.

When Gerald first mentioned to him that he’d be getting married on a boat, Arnold hadn’t known what to anticipate. 

He’d surmised that Rhonda would have arranged for something lavish and over-the-top, for no reason other than it’s _Rhonda_. But upon organizing the furnishings in the stateroom below deck, it’s a much more modest arrangement than he’d originally predicted -- as modest as a cruise yacht can be, anyway. It’s not as though he’d expected the Titanic, of course. A hundred feet of promenade deck is nothing to sneeze at, sure, but compared to Rhonda’s usual style, it almost seems humble. Old-fashioned.

“Sure is somethin’, huh, Arnold?” Gerald breathes, shading his eyes. “Imagine getting a _party boat_ among your ‘emotional reparations’. Shit. I’d let Rex cheat on me, too.”

Arnold coughs on a laugh. “Yeah.” The fact that the Smythe-Higgins family owned it first makes a lot of sense, suddenly. If only he could afford as much to Lila, he snorts to himself. He smiles, ironically.

He feels bad about it. He really does. Not badly enough to take it back, or worse, pretend it didn’t happen, but still. It was a terrible thing to do, even if Helga liked it. Wanted it. He hopes she did. It certainly felt that way. He hopes his grandfather is right, that his instincts are right -- but more than anything, he hopes that Lila will forgive him. Forgive them both; at least Helga, if not him. Odd they may be as a couple, he can tell how important they are to each other. To think he might have ruined that is a thought most unbearable. 

Gerald thinks he’s being dramatic, but count on Gerald to over-simplify. He was strangely optimistic when he’d recounted yesterday’s events with him and Phoebe. He really _had_ just wanted to talk, he’d explained, but the universe had other plans. Tempting, romantic plans, that she went along with _quite_ enthusiastically. He hadn’t been kissed like that since...the last time Helga kissed him, over a decade ago. Nobody has ever kissed him like she has. Nobody kisses like that unless they’re out of their minds in love.

But she hadn’t said it back, and he needs her to. He needs that, before he can want for anything else. Let her come to you, Grandpa told him, and although it clashes with just about everything he stands for, he refrains from knocking on her hotel room door and scribbles down his Best Man Speech at the docks. 

They’ve set up all the chairs and the standing arch for tomorrow. Cleaning up the salon is all that’s left before the rehearsal dinner. The sky is clear. Gentle summer breeze bristling through his hair. Perfect for a wedding on the water. He hopes the weather will hold up. 

Harold and his daughter bustle in and out of the galley, carrying trays and pots and pans to and ‘fro while Sid and Stinky hang fairy lights around the cabin walls. They set aside the remaining decor, call Vitello’s to check on the flowers. When they get to a comfortable stopping point, the groom pulls Arnold aside, presents him with a tiny, antique wooden box.

“Trevor and Jesse are a little too young to be ring-bearers,” he starts out, bashfully. “You’re gonna have your hands full walking with Helga down the aisle, but…”

He feels his eyes go hazy. Gently, he smiles, peeking at the white-gold band in the bed of velvet. “I’d be honored, Gerald.” 

His best friend looks a little glossy in the eyes, too. They lean in for their handshake, fall into each other for a hug. Gerald’s big hand clutches his shoulder, his chin resting atop Arnold’s head. He thinks about the time Harold made fun of them for hugging so much, and remembers feeling bad for him and anyone else who didn’t know how it felt to hug Gerald Johanssen. To be held by him. There’s no safer place on earth -- no better place for Phoebe to be.

She calls them up for brunch in Rhonda’s luxury suite, and they follow, laughing and bouncing around like the kids they’ll never be again, like they own the place. (they practically do, just for this week. thanks rhonda.) 

It’s only the friends up there, along with a butler and a barmaid. They pass along flutes of champagne and Arnold politely declines, beelining for the juice bar instead. He makes small talk with Sheena, meets her daughter Ivy proper. She’s nine years old and really into plants and poetry. She smiles like sunshine. She tells Arnold she wants to be just like her Auntie Helga when she grows up, and he tells her he can’t think of a better choice of role model. They go off to sit with Nadine and Rhonda, leaving him to the shock of pink catching his eye.

Helga is across the room, pearls around her neck and flowers in her hair. It’s tied back in double-braids today, little green ribbons hanging at the tails. Lila is with her, cheek at rest on her shoulder. A yellow daisy wound in her shiny auburn waves. They’re matching today. A pink blouse to go with Helga’s dress. She’s rubbing her thumb in little circles at Helga’s waist as they chat with Olga Pataki near the balcony. Startled, he stumbles in his steps, clutching his plastic cup of iced tea with such strength he almost crushes it. Helga glances his way, with a longing in her eyes he so ardently reciprocates. 

They look cute together, he thinks bitterly. As if he didn’t already feel terrible. He looks at her sister and feels even worse. Worse still, that his presence would go unnoticed by the older Pataki had Lila not also stolen a glance at him. Lifting her head, she smiles. A tiny, careful smile. Olga whips her head around and squeals, charging at him with the force of a typhoon and throwing her arms around him.

“Oh, _Arnold_!” she croons, “How absolutely _wonderful_ it is to see you!” 

He doesn’t mean to stiffen at her touch. He forces a smile, determined not to let his distress show through. “H-Hi, Olga -- what a nice surprise.”

“Oh, isn’t it? Helga was sweet enough to extend her plus-one invite to me!” she beams at the other blonde, who flashes her a half-baked grin in return. “I took a little extra time off so I could spend time with my two favorite girls, just like we used to.”

“That’s -- great,” he says, apprehensively, glancing between the other two. Helga is visibly annoyed, chewing her inner cheek as she swirls around the water in her cup. 

“Goodness, just look at you,” she fawns over him, squeezing his upper arms. Helga clenches her jaw, pointedly averting her eyes. “What a gorgeous man you've become, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, Olga, just ever-so handsome,” Lila would agree, pulling Helga closer to her hip. There’s a curious glimmer in her dark eyes, a slant of her mouth that reads much like a challenge. It makes him want to shrink down and disappear under the expensive-looking carpet. 

“O-Oh, stop, you guys are making me blush -- ”

Olga melts into delighted giggles, clutching her wine glass tight to her chest and ghosting the length of his arm with her other hand. “Oh, aren’t you just the most, Arnold! I could just eat you up!”

Out of jealousy or irritation or both, Helga finally pipes up, turning a funny shade of magenta as she smacks her sister’s shoulder. “Alright, okay, if you’re done _objectifying_ him -- ”

“Oh, don’t be too upset, Helga, you know she’s only teasing,” Lila hums, pleasantly. The smile across her face is for Arnold, though, holding his gaze as her hands float up to stroke Helga’s back. It’s only mildly threatening, just the least bit uncomfortable. Helga looks as ill as he feels and it’s only a small comfort.

“Poor Arnold, listen to us talking like he’s not even here!” Olga laughs, completely (and thankfully) oblivious to the energy they’ve created in this suite. “Oh, you must be so tired of all the attention. Everyone pinching and poking you like some sort of Ben doll.”

“It’s okay, really,” he says gently, lightly touching her arm. Secretly relishing the way Helga’s face turns a darker shade of pink. “I’m just glad people are happy to see me.” 

“Oh, of course they are!” Olga coos. “I’m sure Helga is simply _elated_ , aren’t you, darling?”

She smiles, then, finally. One imperfectly plucked eyebrow cocked as she looks him up-and-down. “That’s one word for it.” 

The drip of sarcasm in her voice makes his stomach turn cartwheels. He chews on his lip, a crackle of electricity sparking and fizzing in their shared line of sight. It doesn’t seem either Olga nor Lila notices. The speed of his heart accelerates like someone’s stepped on the gas. 

“Um -- we should get some coffee before they run out,” Lila mutters, looking up at the taller of the two of them. “Helga?”

They don’t use pet names, he’s noticed. At least not in front of anyone else. He wonders if it’s any different when they’re alone. It was always “my love” or “my darling” when they were together. 

“Right behind ya,” she says. She doesn’t take her hand as they wander away. “We’ll be at the table with Phoebe, Olga.” 

“Be right there!” Olga says. She sighs into her glass, lashes fluttering as she hums. “Oh, Arnold, just look at them. My little sisters -- enemies to friends to lovers. It’s just so romantic, don’t you think?”

He frowns. He does think so, actually. They look cute together. They really do -- or they would, if they actually looked happy. If Helga smiled more. They settle into their chairs at the table and something in his brain short-circuits when Helga sits next to Phoebe instead of her. 

“Y-Yeah,” he says, noticing he hadn’t answered right away. 

Weirdly enough, Olga leans into him, her long blonde hair tickling his face. Her lips smack against her wine glass. 

“But that’s not to say I didn’t just _adore_ the two of you together,” she tells him, quietly like it’s some big secret. His eyes start to burn, ears tingling with the timbre of her voice. “I know I was absent for much of it, but I’ll never forget how happy she was when she was with you. Such a shame it didn’t work out.” 

Lila gets up, presumably to grab a pastry to go with her coffee. She hovers over Helga, kissing the top of her head and wrapping her arms about her neck. She smiles, just briefly. Presses a light kiss to her hand. Lila whispers something to her and it makes her laugh, loud enough to turn the heads of several others in the room. Phoebe giggles, too. Lila kisses her again before making off with their plates, and Helga’s eyes linger on her for longer than he thinks they should have. 

“Yeah,” he says. He watches Lila turn around from the snack table. The pink bow around her neck bounces on her chest. She looks up and their eyes meet, and that same shimmer from before bores right through him. She grins at him, a kittenish little smirk, and he has no idea what it means. His stomach turns over again. “Um, will you excuse me, Olga? I have to -- go get something from my room.” 

“Oh, well come sit with us when you get back!” she says pleasantly, wiggling her fingers under her chin.

“Sure thing,” he lies. He flashes a smile, pretending he doesn’t feel Lila’s eyes trailing him as he leaves.

***

Helga sticks around after everyone’s gone, helps clean up so the maids don’t have to overextend themselves. She lounges on the balcony with Rhonda when they’re done, takes a slow sip of whatever was leftover from bar service. A virgin margarita, it must be. Mostly sugar, topped off with one of those itty-bitty umbrellas. She fiddles with it, slumped over in her chair.

Notably absent from brunch had been Harold, with the convenient excuse that he had to drop off Sarah at her grandparents’, and Curly, who had no such excuse at all -- just making it obvious he hadn’t wanted to come. Apparently Rhonda’s Thursday had been just as eventful as Helga’s, if not more so. She tells her all about it after house-keeping carries out all the tables and dishes. No benumbing declarations of love, apparently, but a lot of sex. Helga gives herself a pat on the back for having had the temperance to reign it in before she goofed up just as badly herself. 

“I don’t even know _why_ we did it,” Rhonda blubbers, cigarette hanging from her lips. She’s got her ankles crossed, cat-eye Caprini shades sliding off her thin nose. Too small to conceal the way her face contorts as she stifles a sob. How she manages to wipe her tears without those acrylic claws stabbing her eyes out is beyond Helga. “It’s not like we _want_ to be together -- you know how Harold is.”

She knows. From the very beginning, she’s known. Always circling back around, the same argument every time. Harold has a child, and that child changes everything about the way relationships work for him. That was the reason she clung to for so long, the way she’d explain away why it couldn’t work. Rhonda is nobody’s mother, sure, but even if he didn’t have Sarah Jane, she is still who she is: spontaneous, fickle, shallow, and basically everything he can’t stand. She doesn’t think about a future past a year ahead and he’s had the same life-plan since he’d turned eighteen. It was never going to work. 

It was never about wanting Harold, anyway. It was about trying _not_ to want Curly, and her only distraction finally grew tired of being just that. 

“It’s normal to be scared,” Helga tells her, elbows on the table. The wind tosses around the little umbrella in her cocktail. Strawberry, judging by the color. The pink matches her dress. Artificial should be fine. She’s already drunk this much and no hives. “Of what you really want. And, God, the thought of _having_ what you really want -- believe me, I get it. You know I do.”

“Yeah, well,” Rhonda huffs, “at what point does he get sick of crying over me?”

“Not sure I’m the right person to answer that one,” Helga snickers. 

“ _God_ ,” Rhonda chortles, leaning farther back in her chair and blowing out smoke. “Do you ever wonder, Helga? All these years go by, and we’re all still drawn to the same fucking people. It simply _baffles_ me. Phoebe studies at the most prestigious school in London, only to come back here and marry Gerald. No fling of mine lasts longer than three weeks because I keep comparing all of them to Curly _fucking_ Gammelthorpe, and then Arnold Shortman spends half his life in South America and _still_ can’t keep his pitiful little doe-eyes away from you! And don’t even get me started on the others! Nadine has been with Sheena for _twelve_ years! TWELVE! Where’s the logic in all that?”

Helga drops her head back, stretching her arms and giving into a grin. Thinking about those pitiful doe-eyes, those pools of emerald green. The way they go soft, just for her. Warmth blossoms in the pit of her chest and she snorts. _Logic_ , hmph. She can’t think of anything _less_ logical. Everything going on within this dodecahedron of friends defies any and everything of the sort -- doesn’t make any of it less real. 

“Beats me, Princess,” she finally replies. She drains her glass, smacking her lips. “I got no clue. Maybe they hexed the drinking water back at Urban Tots.” 

“Ha! Either that, or Madame Blanche put a curse on us.”

“If she did, it’s Thad’s fault,” Helga snickers. “Remember when he broke her front window in fifth grade?”

“I blame him, then,” she grins, and the two of them laugh.

***

Arnold would spend most of the day back at the Sunset Arms. He couldn’t come all the way back to Hillwood and not see his grandparents. They’re fine -- as fine as they can possibly be, for two people just south of a hundred. They have a live-in nurse now, a sweet kid in her twenties to help them keep house and administer their medication. Everyone who used to live there is gone, now. Too old to live without help, or just moved on to someplace else. His grandfather doesn’t rent out, anymore. The house is refinanced and renovated. When he comes by, he tells him it’ll be his one day, if he wants it. He smiles and says he’ll think about it, even though he doesn't have to.

He takes a nap in his old room. Rests his head under the skylight with the flood lights dimmed, stereo humming. Amazed everything in here still works. The pop-out couch still functions, apparently -- dusty, though. Just a bit. They didn’t do much, but they took decent care of it while he was gone. Almost like they knew he'd come back. 

He left so much behind when his parents took him away. Not just the obvious, but little things, too -- certain clothes he’d liked, trinkets and toys and little relics of the past. Baseball cards and records and tapes, all collecting dust along the shelving and cabinets. He rummages through the closet, mostly empty save for a few shirts hanging up and some boxes on the floor. All of which are empty, except the smallest one. The flap is hanging off.

He reaches inside. There’s an old crocheted blanket, some old school books from sixth and seventh grade. It smells like clay and dried acrylics and strangely, like sugar-cinnamon. Something dark pink peeks from beneath an old canvas. 

A little pink book. 

Heart dropping, he snatches it up, flipping it open -- it’s not the one he took off the bus. No, he kept that one, took it with him when he moved. This one is different, smaller. Mostly empty, save for the last page. The passage is dated August 24th, 2002. Before they started high school.

> _My dearest Arnold,_
> 
> _It’s been over a month since I told you goodbye, and my heart still sits heavy in the pit of my chest, weighted down by my sins. I think I’ve always known that I’d be the one to screw everything up, even though it was the last thing I ever wanted to do._
> 
> _I love you, Arnold. With all my heart, for all my life. I love you more than anything, but I'm realizing now that I don’t know how. I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’ve been doing. I feel like such a disappointment. Nothing makes sense. How could such an ethereal creature as yourself love someone like me? I don’t know how to love myself! I don’t, and I can’t -- and I feel like until I do, I’ll never love you the way you should be loved. The way you deserve to be loved. You deserve the best, Arnold, and I’m the farthest thing from it. I have to leave you behind._
> 
> _I’m starting a journey, Arnold, as you are -- and like you, I can’t take you with me. I think Olga is taking me away, soon. Not far -- she’s teaching at P.S. 118, now, and I’m going to live with her for a while, while Bob and Miriam figure out whatever they need to. I don’t really want to go, but anywhere’s better than with them. I don’t think they love me, Arnold. Either that, or maybe they just don’t know how. Maybe I’m a lot more like them than I want to believe. I don’t want to turn into my parents -- I want to be better. I think maybe -- if I get away, I can learn how. I’m so tired of being afraid, of making everyone else afraid of me. I used to think it would be easier that way. If you’re alone, nobody can hurt you. I realized too late that the risk was worth it._
> 
> _Whatever you do, I hope you don’t wait for me, Arnold. I can’t live with myself, thinking I’m holding you back from all the magnificent, beautiful things your life has to offer. You’re destined for things far greater than anything I could ever hope to give you. I know you have dreams, and I want you to reach them. Oh, I hate that I have to hurt you, my love! You told me once that sometimes, we have to hurt each other to do what’s best for ourselves. I don’t want to, but I think for once, I’m doing the right thing. I’ll make friends with my regrets. I’ll keep my demons on a leash. And I hope that one day, if we ever meet again, you will come to know a better Helga G. Pataki -- the Helga that you believed was inside me all along. That we’ll smile at each other, and you’ll know I did my best to take all your football-headed life lessons to heart._
> 
> _And if we don’t, I want you to know that I will still have tried, and that wherever I end up, I will be there because it’s what I deserved._
> 
> _Oh, my Arnold -- I think I’ll miss you forever. I will love you ‘til the end of time._

“Arnold? You still in there?” his grandfather’s voice calls out to him. “Tea’s gettin’ cold!”

He’s crying. He doesn’t realize until it’s harder to breathe. He tears out the note and crumples it into his pocket, wiping his tears on his sleeve.

“I’m here, Grandpa -- be down in a minute.” 

He turns off all the lights and closes the door. Only stays for one cup of tea, a bite of dinner. The cottage-cheese walls feel like they’re closing in on him, the house itself boring into him brick by brick. He kisses his grandparents goodbye, promising to come back “before they’re in caskets”, as they so elegantly put it. He calls a taxi and rides back to Starside with his fingers clenched around the note.

“Hey, man. You ready?” Gerald would ask him a half-hour later. He watches him fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, staring at him through the bathroom mirror. 

“I don’t know, Gerald. I’m kinda tired,” he says lamely, frowning. Gerald groans.

“Man, we _finally_ get to party together and you wanna bail on me? The night before my wedding?”

“Gerald, c’mon, it’s not like that,” he says dolefully, but Gerald makes a fat lip, playing pitiful.

“Then what, mm? What, you can’t stomach Lila dangling Helga in front of you for one more night?” 

Arnold sighs, crossing his eyes. “That’s not...well…”

“Mmm-hmm, see, I get it,” Gerald hums. “C’mon, man. That girl’s a ticking time-bomb. Sooner or later she’ll explode.”

“Gerald, listen…” he thinks of the note, of her words from years ago. Decides not to bring it up. He can feel the scrap of paper deep in his pocket and thinks he’ll keep this one to himself. He lets out a deep breath, reaching for the hair comb by the sink. “I need to give her some space. _I_ need space. I don’t wanna put her in another position where -- ”

“Arnold...Look.” 

He looks. At his reflection, then at Gerald’s dark eyes in the glass. He turns to him, swallowing thickly. Silently begging him not to say what he knows he’s going to. 

“I seen the way she looks at you, man,” he says, just like he thought. “How she’s always looked at you. I don’t even see my _wife_ make eyes like that.” 

“I just don’t wanna -- ” -- _make things worse_ , he doesn’t say. Overstep boundaries. Over-analyze. Tread where he shouldn’t step. Force anything. Twenty things he doesn’t want to do, but -- 

“What _do_ you want, then?” Gerald asks him. He draws his brows together, forehead creasing in a fretful stare. He puffs out a laugh, wetting his mouth as he brushes a hand over his beard. Hand on his hip. “Y’know, that’s somethin’ I always been telling you, Arnold. You only think about what other people want, or don’t want. What do _you_ want? Because that matters just as much. You matter, man.” 

“It’s not that simple, Gerald,” he says, feebly. His counter is half-hearted and frail. It coaxes another laugh out of him. “I can’t just -- _take_ what I want -- ”

“I’m not sayin’ be a homewrecker!” he says. “I’m just telling you to listen to your heart. You used to be real good at that.”

“I just don’t want to be the reason someone gets their heart broken.”

“The three of you been breakin’ each other’s hearts since fourth grade,” he chortles. Arnold can’t fight the smile that cracks through. “I think y’all can survive one more time.” 

“You’re relentless.”

“Maybe, but hey, you gonna tell me I’m wrong?” 

“Have I told you I love you, Gerald?” he asks him gently, fondly. Gerald snorts, rubbing his chin.

“Not since yesterday. Could stand to hear it again -- along with you tellin’ me I’m right.”

Arnold sighs, shaking his head. Still smiling. “You’re right, and I love you.”

“I know I am, and I love you too, man,” he says, grinning madly. “Listen, you don’t really have to come if you don’t feel like it, but I gotta tell ya -- it’s _real_ cool up there. Rhonda took me and Pheebs a while back and we danced _all night_. Plus, she’s paying for all the drinks, so.”

“Compelling,” he admits, lifting his brows. He breathes in, slightly refreshed by Gerald’s enthusiasm. They never did get the chance to go out and party together. It _is_ his wedding, after all. “Okay, give me a bit. I’ll see you guys up there.”

He bares his teeth, lips curling with a kid-like grin, furtive and mischievous. “Nice! Wear somethin’ breezy, then -- gets a little sweaty up there.”

“Later,” he claps him on the shoulder, and Gerald leaves him to finish cleaning himself up for the rooftop bar.

It’s almost eleven when he rushes down to the lobby. The Galaxy Lounge can only be accessed through a private elevator in the main hall, the only one that goes high enough to the roof. He winds the corner a little too sharply and smacks head-first into an unwitting bystander.

“Oh! I’m so sorry -- ”

“Oh, that’s alright! I was clumsy,” a woman says. He hasn’t knocked her over, thankfully, but the stacks of papers she’d been holding flutter to the floor. 

“Here, let me help you with that,” he offers, apologetic. He could almost laugh -- he really never did learn how to watch where’s going. He gathers the folders and documents and hands them back to her.

“How sweet of you, thank you,” she says. She’s a tall, older woman, maybe in her forties, dressed to the nines in an attractive pant-suit. She’s quite pretty, black hair and pearl earrings, something familiar in the lines around her eyes. 

“No problem,” he says. “Um, are you here for the wedding?”

“Wedding? Oh, so that’s what that boat out front is all about!” She laughs, waving a hand. “No, on business, I’m afraid. Just got out of a dinner party with my colleagues, down the hall.” 

He looks off in that direction, at the open doors of a smaller conference area. He shifts awkwardly on the spot, unable to look away from her eyes. Something strikes him, but he isn’t sure what. “Oh, I see, um...I’m sorry, ma’am, this is gonna sound strange, but. I feel like I might know you, from somewhere. Have we met?” 

She touches a hand to her mouth, then, grin splitting wider as her familiar eyes twinkle. “Oh, I thought it was just me! Yes, I think we have. You’re that little boy who lived in the boarding house with my father, aren’t you?”

Father? 

Oh, those eyes. 

It clicks. 

His jaw falls open. “Mai? Mai Hyunh?”

“Yes!” she nods. “Was it...Arnold?”

“Yes!” he brightens, hands reaching out to clasp hers. “Wow, Mai, I can’t believe it!”

“What a tiny world we live in!” she hums, absolutely delighted. “How are you, Arnold? You’ve grown up so much, the last time I saw you, my, you must have been about this high.” 

She takes her hand from his only to hold it just above her hip for reference. He laughs with her.

“I’ve -- I’ve been great, wow. How about you? How’s your dad?” 

“He’s good, he’s good. He’s been living with me,” she tells him, full of affection. 

“Wow. I’m -- that’s fantastic,” he says, near speechless. 

“Thank you, Arnold. I’m so happy to have him.”

“Wow,” heart melting, he sways a bit on the spot, looking her over. The last time he’d seen her, she was bundled in a holiday sweater, short crop of shiny hair. The years have been kind to her. She looks so much like Mr. Hyunh, when he was that age. “God, that Christmas almost feels like...I don’t know. Another lifetime away, almost.”

“Oh, yes. I can hardly remember what life was like, before then,” she agrees, hugging the folders to her middle. “I’d never been happier. I just wish I could have thanked that little girl.”

Arnold’s face falls. There was no little girl with him, then, just Gerald. Confused, he breathes an awkward chuckle. “L...Little girl?”

“Yes, the little girl who told me where to find him,” Mai begins. “It was such a strange, surreal night, that night. She came to my door at almost three in the morning. Wouldn’t tell me her name. She just handed me a note with the address and told me ‘Merry Christmas.’ I was only about twenty, at the time. I thought I’d been dreaming -- maybe had too much eggnog. I told my father, it must have been an angel.” 

A Christmas angel. He’d stopped trying to make sense out of it years ago. A miracle’s a miracle, Gerald had told him. Chalk it up to Somebody Up There looking out for you. Always looking out for you. 

“Arnold? Are you alright, dear? You look a little pale.”

His heart is thundering, beating hard enough to bruise him. He inhales so quickly and so sharply he almost chokes on his own breath. 

“Oh,” he catches himself, shaking his head. “S-Sorry, I. I just -- I'm late, actually, for a -- we're having a...A party, and I'm late -- "

"Oh, well, don't let an old lady keep you, dear," she says warmly. "Enjoy your night, Arnold. I hope the wedding will be fun!"

"Th-thanks, Mai, you too," he stammers. He sprints around the next hallway, keeping it together long enough to reach the lift. He slams the button for “up.” He must look like a lunatic, bursting into tears like this in front of the club entrance. A young couple steps off the elevator and shoots him a quizzical look. He starts laughing, sniffling and coughing as the doors close in on him. 

God, Helga. Helga G. Pataki. _She's got it all wrong_ , he thinks. _It's not about getting what we deserve_. She's so resigned to the life she thinks she's earned. She really has no idea. 

That's okay, though. He's told her once -- he'll tell her again. He can't wait to tell her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lila and helga really ARE cute together. i kind of hope the patakis never gets made, wouldn't wanna get my bisexual hopes up. 
> 
> i have never been on party boat, please forgive me if anything sounds off or if i've used improper terminology anywhere -- i had the wiki page open for yachts and kinda just (jacking off motion) idk i just liked the idea of a wedding on a boat -- it felt right with rhonda as benefactor. i just really want her to have morphed into the generous rich friend who will pay your way through grad school if you decide to go back bc she feels so bad about the way she treated you in middle school ok


	7. friday night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "it's time you stopped hating yourself, helga. you're the only one who still does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * just a courtesy warning for this and for the chapters to follow - there will be some mild eroticism/sexual content.  
> * i make a few references to one of my other fics particularly in this chapter, my apologies if some content seems familiar! i just liked some of what i'd done so much, i wanted to use it again. lol

They used to do this all the time -- go out dancing. She and Lila and Olga, years ago, when she was still in college and Lila was waitressing at The Bird Cage on Vine. Married men bought them cocktails they never drank, slid them crumpled fifties just to watch them dance on the tables together. Helga wouldn’t even remember that they were looking in the first place. It was easy to get lost when they were dancing. It’s easy to forget who you are in places like this, even if you don’t drink. She’s missed the feeling.

It takes some coaxing to get her on the floor, at first. Nadine and Eugene whoop and holler and carry on from the velvet couch, safely tucked away in a booth with their virgin daiquiris as the rest of them clown around under the disco lights. Rhonda rented out the entire club for the night, and she’ll be gods-damned if they all don’t make the most of it. She pulls Helga by the wrist when an old Pop Daddy hit comes on and then she falls into it, can’t help herself. The friends make a cluster under the crystal chandeliers, yelling and clutching their drinks and gyrating on each other like they’re at a homecoming dance once again.

Lila makes herself scarce, chatting and drinking with Olga and Kim in a booth down on the lower deck where the music is a little quieter. She tells Helga to go have fun, let loose, dance -- won’t breathe a word of why she doesn’t want to join. They really need to talk, but Olga’s presence won’t allow it, and they sure are stuck with her for another twenty-four hours, at least. 

Go fucking figure that the right thing wouldn’t be easy. Of course she wouldn’t be awarded the less painful route -- and why should she be? She cheated on her. Whether or not Lila cares is beyond the point. Frustrated, mostly with herself, she ignores her and her sister, and tries to focus on having a good time with Phoebe instead.

Her best friend always loved dancing, too. She didn’t go out as much as Helga used to, but the best nights were the ones she and Rhonda came along for, all of them crowding around the protective Gerald. Between his height and Helga’s resting bitch face, nobody would mess with five-foot-nothing Phoebe. Not that they have to worry about that tonight.

They sandwich Gerald on the dance floor, giggling and grinding on either side of him and he eats it up, playing with the short hem of Helga’s flimsy dress as his almost-wife pulls him closer by his loose tie. For a blissful hour or so, Helga doesn’t have a care in the world -- not a single thought of Lila or Arnold passes through her head as her friends laugh and yell in a bubble around her, shielding her from any outside disruption. Gerald needs a breather and another drink and leaves her to Phoebe, and they dance for a while, hands on each other’s hips, in each other’s sweaty hair. Rhonda comes up behind her and gives her a teasing nip at the neck. Oh, she must be drunk. Helga wishes she could be. 

“Have you seen Thad?” she would yell over the bumping bassline. 

“By the bar,” Helga tells her, arms still wrapped around the bride. 

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” she exclaims, making off in that direction. Helga yells for her to get her ass back here, but away she goes in her tight little latex dress, cosmo in hand. 

“Welp, they’ll be behind the curtain within the hour.”

Phoebe giggle-snorts and tosses her head back, long black hair falling in her eyes. “That could be you too, if you’d stop being so stubborn.” 

“Yeah, well, if my sister could be more convenient with her timing,” she stammers, averting her eyes, but she cannot escape the severity of her best friend’s gaze.

“You know exactly why you’re hesitating, Helga, don’t use Olga as an excuse.” 

“It’s not that simple, Pheebs,” she argues uselessly, arms hanging off her shoulders. “I’ll just -- talk to her tomorrow -- ”

“That’s what you said you would do _last_ night,” she scolds her, dancing closer to her. “You don’t have many 'tomorrows' left, Helga. He’s leaving on Sunday, you know that, don’t you?” 

She knows. She’s been trying not to know. Pretending she doesn’t, so that maybe it won’t be true. Better yet, maybe she’ll wake up on Sunday and this will all be a dream. It’s going to feel like it anyway, when he leaves this hotel and gets on that plane. 

Brainy said he’ll come back, and she believes him. She does, but she doesn’t want to. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t have waited for her and he shouldn’t stay for her. She shouldn’t ask him to. 

“He came up here, you know,” Phoebe goes on, drawing her out of her head. 

“He’s up here?!” she panics, whirling around to scan the room. 

Of course he’s here. With Gerald, several feet away at the counter. A tall glass of water in hand. He’s leaning against the bar, shirt unbuttoned so far down he may as well not even have bothered. The brush script of his tattoo is just barely peeking out. She glances at him just as he throws his head back in laughter, combing his golden hair back with his hand as Gerald makes some comment she can’t possibly hear. They were looking at her. She knows they were. 

“I’m gonna step out for some air,” she tells her. She grabs her purse from their table and scurries out to the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind her. 

It feels no less like a wet locker out here than in, but at least there’s a breeze. Helga fumbles for a light, shivering even though it’s warm and muggy. Hillwood is quiet down below. Either that, or she’s too far out to hear it. The city lights flicker like fireflies, far off across the lake. The night sky is so clear. 

She takes a long drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke curl around the iron railing. Lila always hated that she smoked, but she never told her to quit. She tried to on her own, a few times, but always came back to it. Every summer, it seems, when the night air gets crisp. 

Well, she wouldn’t have to disappoint her for much longer, she thinks sourly to herself. God, that’s so fucked up. _She_ is so fucked up.

“Hey.”

“SHIT!” Helga almost jumps out of her skin. She whips around -- scoffs upon realizing. “Christ, Arnold, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry, Helga,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean to, I just -- wanted some air.”

“Yeah, well. You and me, both,” she tells him, quietly. He comes up next to her, leans over the railing. There’s a warmth in the way he takes up the space next to her, warmth she has so sorely missed. She thinks of the other night, of his head resting on her shoulder. How natural, how right it felt. Right and wrong, at the same time. Her stomach clenches.

“When did that start?” he asks her, off-handedly, his eyes downcast.

“What, this?” She lifts the cigarette. “Oh, I don’t know. Tenth or eleventh grade, on and off. I hate drinking, so.”

“You needed a vice.”

“Yeah, and I quit you cold turkey,” she says bluntly. It’s not entirely a joke, and that’s probably why he laughs. “You want a drag?”

Arnold looks bashful -- he scratches the tip of his nose. “Oh -- you’ll make fun of me.”

“What, you’ve never tried it?”

His shoulders bounce. “Not cigarettes.” 

She tosses her head back with a cackle. “Oh of _course_ you smoke weed -- ” 

“Sometimes,” he amends himself, smirking. “With my botanist mother, if that makes me any cooler.”

“ _So_ much cooler,” she mutters, lips puckered as she exhales. Maybe it’s just the lighting out here on the balcony, the glare of the red spotlights, but it looks like he’s blushing. “You know, I _have_ done edibles with your Grandpa, once or twice.”

“Seriously?” he snorts. “When?”

“Oh, years ago. I was in college,” she tells him. “I used to hang out with your grandparents quite a bit, actually.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, y’know. Just to check up on ‘em -- make sure they’re still alive. Haven’t been by in a while.” 

“They never told me that,” he says, a little quietly.

_I asked them not to_ , she doesn’t say. She holds out the cigarette. It’s got her lipstick stains on it, a smear of dusty rose. She wonders if he notices. He takes it from her, pinching the butt of it between his thumb and index finger. She snickers, trying to scowl at him, but she just doesn’t have it in her. 

“You’re holding it like a _joint_ , Arnold, _God_ \-- ”

He grins, shaking his head. Tucks it gingerly between his lips. (oh, her heart -- an indirect kiss.) She holds her breath, watching him take a long drag. His mouth forms a little “o” as he blows out smoke, his eyes wilting in that drowsy sort of sultry way she’s always quietly adored. The swirl of smoke dances about, framing his delicate face so prettily. Oh, stars above, how she hates him. 

“That better?” he asks her in a low purr. She works down a hard swallow, lunging to take it back from him.

“Okay, you need to stop it -- ”

“What?” he laughs, like he doesn’t know. Bites on his lip. He leans in a little closer. 

“Shut up,” she warns him, and that does nothing, of course.

“What, you think it’s hot?” he taunts her. His voice drops down another octave. God, she hates him. Everything about him and his can’t-forget-me eyes.

“Shut _up_ , ugh, you’re insufferable!” she shoves him a little, and he laughs gently. It feels dangerously like when they were kids. Pushing him away when all she wanted was to draw him in closer. She stares at the half-smoked cigarette and takes another drag. Tries to catch any lingering heat from his lips. _Perhaps some poison doth hang on it to make me die_. 

“I always wanted this, you know,” he says lightly, out of nowhere. “This part, right here.”

“What, smoking on a rooftop together?” she drones. Her deadpan snark belies her racing heart, and she hates that, too. She knows that’s not what he means. 

“Just -- experiencing things with you,” he tells her. His elbow bumps her arm. He edges ever closer to her. The spice of his cologne is heady and dizzying, like something she used to spray on her pillows when he first moved away. “We never got to do the things I imagined for us.”

“Like what,” she dares to ask.

“Slow-dancing, for one,” is his surprising answer, helpless smile faltering. Not so bold now, a nervous school-boy blush creeps across his nose as he fingers through his untidy hair. The collar of his shirt flutters in the wind and it’s warmer now than before, somehow. Too warm. Too tempting. She goes against her better judgement once again and puts out her cigarette. Holds her hand out to him like a shy little pre-teen. 

“W-Well it’s not too late for that, you know.”

Arnold’s hand hovers in the air, his fingers centimeters from hers. She can almost feel the tremors. He’s just as anxious as she is. “Is that...alright?” 

Helga tries to smile. She only makes it about halfway. The corner of her mouth quirks upward just for half a second. “It’s just dancing, Arnold.”

“Th-Then…”

Their hands touch. 

Time slows. 

Surroundings blur to nothing around them. He looks at her like she’s the only thing he can see. The only thing he cares to see, as his other hand comes to rest at her hip. She touches a trembling hand to his shoulder and he smiles, tentatively. A cautious little smile, before he gently starts to sway. 

She can feel his feet touching hers. Toe-to-toe as she moves right, backward, left, forward. They’re a little off-kilter, one or two steps out of sync. The music from inside is anything but fitting, some obnoxious electro-swing cover of an old classic rock song. But Arnold is fluid in his movements. He guides her along with the formula of a simple waltz, something they learned in school so long ago. She falls in line with his footing, taking careful measure of the inches between them. (there aren't many.)

They never did get to do this together. Not really. She hardly counts the tango in fourth grade -- that was just a game, two petty kids caught up in their attempts to humiliate each other for sport. Any tension or teasing made only in effort to one-up the other. There had been no romance in it, no timid touches or awkward glances. None of the swarming butterflies she usually felt in his presence. 

She can feel them, now. Tenfold. A great fluttering of wings in her stomach, heart, and lungs. His hand is shaking slightly in hers and she thinks he might feel it, too. 

“For someone so dense, you’re awfully light on your feet,” she picks on him. Like in the before-times. 

He chortles ever-so lightly, admonishing her. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I’d say so.”

“Well, you can’t be Pookie’s grandkid and not know how to dance,” he says smartly. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a Pataki,” she deadpans. Arnold bursts into laughter, falling forward, his forehead touching her shoulder. The burn of his warmth makes her skin sizzle. “It wasn’t _that_ funny -- ”

“S-Sorry -- it kinda was,” he laughs again. A twinkle in his eye. 

She turns her head, heat flaring in her cheeks and neck as she winds her fist in the cotton of his shirt. Just so as to keep from grabbing his face. Or punching it. Jesus, it’s like she’s nine all over again. “Ugh, you would think so.”

“Oh I’m _so_ sorry that I think you’re funny,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and smirking and she’s missed that, too. Him playing with her like that. She misses their games, despite being caught up in another one already. He leans in a little closer and she thinks she’s going to lose again. 

If he keeps smiling at her like that, she might just pull a Rhonda. 

“What else do you think,” she asks him, brazenly, undaunted. She has a pretty good guess already. He bats his too-long lashes, his throat bobbing with a difficult swallow that makes his voice crack the tiniest bit when next he speaks. 

“I think you already know, Helga.”

His hand leaves her hip to hold it against his chest. His heart is beating almost as wildly as hers -- almost. They’re so very close. He looks at her lips, at the smear of pink across her cupid’s bow. _Thumpthump_ , goes her heart. She wets her mouth and watches him track the movement so unsubtly, she doesn’t think he’s even _trying_ to hold back. She doesn’t want him to. 

“Arnold.” She says his name so softly, in a timbre reserved for him and no one else. Her Juliet voice. It makes something flicker in his eyes, makes him take his bottom lip between his teeth. _Christ_. He should never learn how easy it is to want him -- how irresistible that half-lidded stare is. Those eyes are so hard to forget. 

“We should go back inside,” he tells her, unmoving. Tightening his hand around hers. The other moves to clutch her waist, to trail his fingers up the back of her dress. Brushing over each button, one at a time. His palm is flat against her spine as he brings her hips flush against his. 

“Yeah, we should,” she would agree. Fluttering her lashes. She tilts her head down and hears his breath catch in his chest. Feels the skip in his heartbeat as she draws him in even closer. 

“I feel bad,” he says in a breathy whisper. He is so very still, frozen in her grasp, but his heart is trembling beneath her knuckles. “I really do -- ”

She wishes she did. She wishes she could say she hesitated. That she stopped to think about it, even for only a moment longer. In her defense, he knows better than to look at her like that. To smile like that. 

She believes him, of course. Sure he feels bad, he’s Arnold, of course he feels bad -- 

But not badly enough to stop her when she grabs the back of his head. To stop her fingers curling around his throat. He makes this dreamy little sigh, right as she crushes her lips against his, and that’s when she loses all her senses.

She pushes him against the railing, pins him between her hips and the iron bars. Arnold moans, a noise that shoots straight to her groin, makes her heart dance and her head swim. The touch of his hands is _electrifying_. He moves them from around her waist up over her chest, palming at her breasts experimentally. Squeezing. Her heart jumps at the touch. He’s so impossibly warm. She wants nothing more than to lose herself in it. She tugs his bottom lip between her teeth and he sounds like he’s melting. He shoves against her, grabs her hips so suddenly it catches her off-guard. He pushes her against the wall.

He used to be so gentle, when they were kids. When they were eleven and holding hands in Tina Park. When they were little and shy and nervous and had no idea where or how to direct all the energy building between them. When they sat in his room all alone and had only a vague inkling of what those tingles down their spines meant. It was all so delicate, those short little kisses. He would hold her head in place and listen to the shortness of her breath, like he was relishing the way he knew he was making her heart race. And race it would, despite the slowness of his lips moving against hers. His patience would make her _ache_.

That patience is gone now. There’s nothing shy about the way he presses himself against her, no delicacy in the way he tugs at her braids. A gasping breath escapes her throat and he growls, digging into her waist with his blunt fingertips. Brushing his hands over her chest again like he wants to tear her dress off. The sleeves are sliding off her shoulders. He parts his mouth open, sighing, tongue gliding along her teeth as she clutches around his neck. Dips her fingers in the bowl of his collarbone. His pulse is pounding. She kisses him harder. 

“Helga?”

She doesn’t hear the sliding door. The gust of warm air from the club rushes between their bodies as she and Arnold jump apart. Her sister is standing dumbstruck in the doorway with her eyes wide. Her brows have disappeared into her short fringe. She clutches a hand to her chest. 

“Olga,” Arnold breathes. 

Helga’s feet start moving before her head can follow. “Shit -- ”

She pushes past her sister, past the unwitting cluster of drunk and dancing friends, deaf to the heavy footballs trailing behind her as she dashes for the elevator --

“Helga, wait, I -- ”

“Don’t -- !” she warns him. She’s not sure why she bothers. He’s not going to listen. She slams the “down” button and he reaches for her wrist.

“Helga, please don’t run from me again -- ”

“Don’t follow me, Football Head, and make sure Olga doesn’t either!” she barks at him, wrenching away. 

“Wait, Helga, you don’t understand -- ”

“No, _you_ don’t understand, Arnold!” she berates him. She hadn’t meant to yell, really -- he doesn’t deserve that. Oh, Gods, he doesn’t deserve to put up with her like this. “God, are you deaf, what did I just say -- don’t follow me!”

The doors to the lift hiss open and she leaps inside, fumbling for the third floor -- Arnold hesitates, watches as it starts to draw closed, but right before they do, he pushes an arm through.

“You know what, no, I’m not just letting you go this time -- ”

Helga groans into her hands, blushing hotly as she feels his palms on her back. “Don’t touch me,” she scolds him, throwing herself against the opposite side of the shaft.

“Why?” he grumbles, shoulders sagging in defeat. “You seemed pretty content with me doing so, earlier -- ”

“ -- because I can’t fucking think straight when you put your hands on me!” she yells back, hiding her face in the wall. 

“What’s left for you to think about?” he asks her, sincerely. Poor Arnold -- he really doesn’t get it, does he. 

“Don’t worry about it!” she says childishly, her back still turned to him.

“How could I _not_ , Helga?” he knits his brows together, voice cracking as he tries desperately to get her to look at him again. “This is all my fault! I feel really, really bad -- ”

“I’m sure you do!” she whirls around, fists clenched so tight she could break her own skin. “That’s why you kissed me twice in the last thirty-six hours, huh?” 

“There’s two to a kiss, Helga,” he reminds her, a sour note in his thick voice. 

“Oh, right, like you wouldn’t have dared if I didn’t move in first,” she tells him, bitterly, watching him shrink against the wall. He looks like he’s been stung. The elevator pings with their descent as they go down several floors, the twelfth, the eleventh. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks hard into her eyes with an intensity that could disintegrate. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t kept leading me on all week,” he snaps. The notion punctures her heart so sharply she swears she’s bleeding through her dress.

“Is _that_ what you think I’ve been doing?” she almost whimpers. It’s a pathetic little sound. One that seems to hurt him to hear. He draws his brows together in a fretful knit, a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck. 

“I don’t know, is it? Because that’s what it feels like to me,” he shakes, his chest rising and falling rapidly with shortness of breath. “You -- you _pin me_ soaking wet to the wall of an old shack out in the middle of nowhere, a-and then the next day I have t-to make small talk with your sister while your pretty girlfriend hangs all over you? Only for you to just -- d-do it all over again, hours later?”

“It’s not like that, Arnold,” she combats him, her chest rattling with each anxious pulse of her heart. 

“Then what is it like, Helga?” he demands of her, eyes swimming with the onset of tears. “P-Please, just tell me -- ”

“You don’t understand,” she says again, a little more venomous than intended. She hopes he knows she’s not angry, not at him. The ringing bell signals for the third floor and she slips through the doors as soon as they open wide enough. Arnold chases after her, sharply turning the corner behind her as she fumbles around her purse for the key-card.

“I would if you’d just tell me,” he pushes on. “Please, Helga, just...tell me how you feel -- ”

“I don’t feel bad!” she barks at him, halting right outside her door. She breathes out a quiet, trembling laugh, watching the dark of his pupils go wider more deeply she lowers her voice. “I don’t. You said you feel bad, but I don’t.”

The words get stuck on the roof of her mouth. Thick and syrupy, like taking too big a bite of a caramel apple. So bad for your teeth, but tastes so good. She lets them sit on her tongue before wetting her lips.

“Not one bit,” she goes on. She swipes the card and pushes the door open -- “Don’t you get it, Arnold? This whole time I’ve just been -- ”

\-- and the breathless gasp she hears is not her own, nor is it Arnold’s.

It’s Lila’s -- or maybe it’s Phoebe’s friend Kim’s, her lips a scant centimeters from her almost-certainly-ex-girlfriend’s. She’s on top of her in the bed Helga and Lila slept in, pleather skirt hiked up around her waist. Lila’s dainty, slender hands floating along her intricately-tattooed thighs. 

“Helga,” she breathes.

“Lila,” Helga feels herself say, and then, awkwardly, “Kim?”

She watches Arnold’s eyes go wide in her peripheral. For a moment, none of them say anything. The air is gone from the room, the only sound the faint drip drip of the faucet in the bathroom sink. Helga doesn’t blink for a solid twenty seconds.

“Erm -- will you excuse us a minute, Kim? Arnold?” Lila breaks the silence. “Just a minute.” 

She looks between the two of them, a polite smile just barely present on her freckled face. She leans up on her elbows, patting Kim’s hips until she wriggles off of her. The poor girl is tomato-red, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she glances at Helga apologetically. Arnold looks to be on the brink of hysterics, pressing his mouth into a thin line before slapping a hand over it as he follows Kim out of the hotel room. The creak of the door shutting behind him is deafening. 

Helga’s laugh is almost inaudible, lost the second she opens her mouth. “So that’s why you’ve been quiet all week.” 

The giggle Lila would manage is just as feeble, a shaky little noise. She brings her wrist to her forehead, breathing in a way that makes her chest rattle. “Oh, this isn’t how I wanted to do this, Helga...”

“Lila, please, don’t,” her voice wavers. She rocks back and forth on her feet, unsure of where she wants to be for her next string of words. “You don’t even know the half of what I’ve been…”

Lila would solve that minor conundrum with a gentle pat on the mattress. “Come here, Helga. Come to me.” 

She does so. Steps forward with feet like lead. A feeling she’d thought would make her lighter serves to cement her to the floor instead. Lila’s gentle eyes glass over and the guilt starts to weigh her down, heavy enough to sink below the floor. Her hand is outstretched, as it always is. Always there to lift her up. Helga crawls into the bed, rests against her chest -- lets herself be held by her once again. 

“I talked to Brian last night,” Helga murmurs. “So Gerald told you, huh?”

Lila swallows audibly. “Mhm.”

“And that was when you made up your mind.”

“I’ve had my mind made up for years, Helga. It was only a matter of time.”

She shudders through a giggle, a stream of hot tears dripping down her cheeks. She doesn’t know what to say to that right away. She’s not surprised in the least, now that she thinks about it. 

Lila had been hesitant enough in the beginning. It was easy when they were sixteen and careless. Phoebe had gone abroad to study a year after Arnold left, and without the two people she cared about most, Helga retreated into herself, only coming out when dragged. Lila had been the only one who’d made the effort, at the time. They didn’t call it anything, back then. Experimenting with no stakes, no future. 

She hadn’t dwelled on her when she moved, not the way she dwelt on Arnold, but she latched onto her when she came back. Lila had been the one to hold her, to watch her become the better version of herself. She grew to love her, in her own way. Wanted to keep her close. Didn’t want to be without her. It made sense, the two of them together. They were good for each other.

“I really wasn’t lying, you know,” she sniffles, nuzzling her nose into the crook of her neck. “When I said I wanted to move on. I really thought I did. I really do care about you, Lila...” 

“I know you do, Helga,” she says softly, shakily, but with conviction. “I’m ever-so sure you do.” 

“Arnold found it,” she says, breath hitching. “The locket. You planted it there, didn’t you?”

She can feel her smile. Her lips against her temple. “I did.” 

“You know me so well,” Helga sputters, choking out a laugh. Knowing. It was never going to be enough, in the end. Lila knew that, all along, right from the very beginning. She kisses her forehead.

“I knew,” she goes on, “that even after all these years, a part of you still loved him. And as badly as you wanted to let it go, you couldn’t -- and you never needed to. I knew Arnold still felt the same way. You belong together, Helga.”

People used to say that all the time. “You belong together.” “I don’t believe in fate, but you guys were something special.” “You’re different, you’re soulmates.” “It was meant to be.” Everyone who knew them, or knew of them. Classmates, teachers, family members, neighbors, co-workers -- anyone who knew either one of them would tell her so. And she never wanted to hear it. Never wanted to let herself believe it was anything other than a fantasy. 

She was happy just to preserve the memory of their time together. To let it live as it was in the deepest, darkest recesses of her heart, untainted and innocent. A blissful schoolyard romance, there and then gone, like the sparks of fireflies in July. Never intended to come back. She doesn’t deserve to have it back, but back it’s come, and the only person she needs validation from wants her to have it. 

She doesn’t deserve her, either. Oh, Brainy was right. She’d asked Lila out at a wedding, and now she was going to break up with her at one. The poetry of it all. 

“Lila, I’m so -- ”

“Shh. Don’t -- don’t,” Lila hushes her, clutching her tighter. Smoothing the errant hairs from her forehead. “I know. It’s okay.”

No it’s not, she wants to argue, but she’s so tired. Tired of fighting herself, of not forgiving herself. Just of herself. She cries and it feels like an exorcism, soaking Lila’s blouse with her tears. She clings to her and Lila clings back. She’ll never let her go. 

“It’s time to stop hating yourself, Helga,” she says. “You’re the only one who still does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * i made a shortaki playlist! i would have preferred spotify but i can never find those niche instrumental covers on there, lmao. it is [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLd84L2rvoBJTzlnkiI3JxIuoVHX76GyCs) if you'd like to listen - hopefully the link works lol. i'm still adding songs so i apologize if it looks different whenever you visit it :')  
> * sorry about the constant changes to the number of chapters - i think we'll be done after two more, but i might tack on a bonus.


	8. saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heaven is a place on earth with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things i must apologize for:  
> * the length of this chapter  
> * gratuitous references to lana del rey's music
> 
> two things i will not apologize for  
> * weepy and emotional wedding segments  
> * ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> this is pretty much it, guys -- i've been pouring my soul into this for about a month, now, and while i don't think it's quite perfect, i'm pretty pleased with how it's come out. i hope you enjoy the climax (lmao) and please look out for an epilogue. i definitely want to do more hey arnold fics in the future, so don't think you've seen the last of me. for now, i ask that you blast your favorite love songs and tuck in with your favorite beverage. i cried a lot writing this one bc i'm gay and a sap

The sun burns brighter this side of Moonlight Bay. Hotter. It hangs heavy amongst the clouds. They part in wisps across a violet horizon. Last night’s stars are fading, the shadow of the moon lost behind the peaks of cedar forest. A slight chill in the air. It’s seven AM.

Arnold sips his cheap coffee and dangles his feet over the edge of the dock, watching the water ripple. Seagulls hover and cackle and swoop down for their morning catch. He tosses a few crumbs from his muffin their way. 

He didn’t sleep much. He should have -- it’s Wedding Day, after all. His speech isn’t done and his suit isn’t pressed and he doesn’t even know what time he has to be ready. If he has to style his own hair or if Rhonda’s hired someone to do it for him. (probably the latter.) He’d gone back to his room chewing a shit-eating grin off his face, laughing to himself until he dissolved into tears. He can’t remember the last time he cried himself to sleep, the last time he sobbed until he felt like his heart had been emptied and carved out from between his ribs. 

Lila had been with another woman, but Helga had still gone to bed with her. The knock he’d hoped would come rapping at his door never came, and he was left feeling just as foolish, selfish, and hopeless as he had when this week began. A game he thought them both too old to play was draining him once again, and he’s so, so tired. So tired of watching her run away.

People used to call her fiery, raging and unforgiving, burning everything in the way of her path -- but Arnold had always thought her to be much more like water. Aggressive, sometimes violent, but tranquil and peaceable -- and always crashing into him. 

The tide is high, now. He’s let her carry him all this way, over the metaphorical cliff, right upon the precipice. Left him staring down the steep incline with no way to see what lies in wait at the bottom. He’s wondering whether or not he should just let her drown him after all when a breathy, toneless voice shakes him from his imagination.

“I see you’re an early riser, too.”

Honey-brown eyes peer softly down at him, and he breathes out through his nostrils, a helpless, doleful sigh. Those lingering feelings of frustration and bitterness quickly ebb away as she smiles down at him. A real smile, for the first time all week.

“Hey, Lila,” he greets her, gently. 

“Good morning, Arnold. I hope I’m not bothering you.” 

He shakes his head. Pats the space next to him. “Do you wanna sit?”

She sits. She tucks the stray hairs from the wind behind her ears and swings her legs over the dock. She must be wearing the clothes she’d slept in, a heathered tee and sweatpants. Her own clothes, he thinks, not Helga’s. Coffee in her hand. The steam curls around her wrist as she lifts the styrofoam to-go cup to her lips. She doesn’t smell overwhelmingly like vanilla-cream sugar today. Maybe the woodsy aroma of his dark roast is just squashing it.

She feels so small next to him. He remembers a time she seemed to take up so much more space, when he would have to look up at her. He chews his inner cheek, wondering what on earth to say. He has more than a few questions -- like what exactly was going on with her and Helga -- but she would save him his breath.

“Arnold, I owe you an apology.”

She doesn’t look at him. She looks ahead, eyes fixed on the line where the sky kisses the waterline. He stares at her with his mouth agape. She doesn’t even blink.

“Lila, wait, I think I should explain first -- ”

“I’m ever so sure _I’m_ talking, Arnold,” she cuts him off -- she sounds suspiciously like Helga when she does so. He closes his mouth obediently, waits for her to go on. She sighs. “I’m afraid I’ve been awfully cruel to both you and Helga this entire week, toying with your feelings. It was wrong of me, and I’m just ever-so sorry.”

He must be making some sort of face, because he catches her eye. She smiles, sheepishly. She looks more than a little tired, like she hadn’t slept very much.

“I knew you would be here, Arnold. For the wedding. I’ve known you were coming for weeks,” she says pointedly. Apologetically. Something like relief crossing her face as she continues. “Gerald told me. I asked him to keep it from Helga -- I didn’t want her to know about it, because I didn’t want her to have time to second-guess herself.” 

Arnold’s throat goes dry -- he worries his brow. “Wh...What do you mean?”

“She’s a bad liar, Arnold,” Lila says, giggling weakly. “She always has been. Especially when it comes to lying to herself. She thinks she can convince herself of anything, but every now and then, those little cracks in her façade will show through. I’m sure you remember.” 

She shifts a little, takes a generous sip from her cup. Her eyes turn skyward again. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust her to do the right thing,” she goes on, a little cryptically. “I just know that sometimes, Helga needs a little extra push -- and I knew you’d go poking around in places you shouldn’t. Because like Helga, I had a feeling you hadn’t exactly moved on, either…”

He laughs a little too, his heart beating a little faster as he starts to realize -- oh, of course. No wonder Helga looked so aghast the other day in the shed. Of course -- how could he still be so dense? Helga had even said as much. He chews his lip. “Intuitive as ever, I see.” 

“I told myself I shouldn’t meddle, but…” Lila looks at him again, creasing her brow. There’s dark circles under her eyes, but the rest of her face looks bright. Like the weight of a brick house has just been lifted off her back. “Oh, Arnold. You understand what I’m trying to tell you, don’t you?” 

He thinks he does. Finally. He finally smiles back. “Yeah, but, if you could answer me one thing, Lila?”

“Certainly, Arnold.”

“Do you love her?”

Lila sighs. “Does it matter?”

It doesn’t, he thinks, somberly. No -- her answer won’t change anything, nothing about the way he feels, or Helga feels. It doesn’t make a difference, but. “Please, I’d just really like to know.” 

“Well, yes, Arnold. I do, just ever-so much,” she says. She sounds a little guilty, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Like she just couldn’t help herself. He can relate. “I didn’t stall for all noble reasons, I’m afraid. I suppose I did want to try to have one more week where we could just...be together, before the inevitable.” 

“Lila…” he says her name, because it’s all he can think to say. She rests her hand on top of his for a moment, smiles at him again. She doesn’t look happy, but she does look relieved. 

“Don’t feel bad for me, Arnold,” she tells him. She means it. He can hear it. She’s always meant everything she’s said. She doesn’t want apologies or pity -- there’s no need for such. “She’s still my dear friend, and that’s something I’ll have forever. I lose nothing in this game.” 

She draws her feet up, rising to stand. Her hair whips about in the breeze. He can smell some of her perfume, now. Sweet like tea-cookies. 

“Helga, on the other hand...well, I’m certain you’re getting on a plane tomorrow, aren’t you?” she says, voice lilting with a bit of a tease. She flashes him that knowing smirk, that tiny smile she kept shooting his way yesterday. The one he couldn’t decipher, before. 

It makes sense, now. 

His heart is still racing. “I…”

She sighs again. It’s a little more impatient, this time, and he can’t blame her. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you on the boat?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you,” he tells her. She turns away. He lifts himself up to stand, too, calls after her. “Um. Lila?”

She looks back over her shoulder. Her shirt balloons and blusters about in the wind. “Mhm?”

“Thank you,” he says, awkwardly. For so many things. For looking after Helga all these years -- for learning her, and knowing her. For being instinctive and selfless, and for understanding, most of all. She has every reason to hate him, or at least resent him, but she doesn’t. His smile is doleful, a little helpless. He hopes he doesn’t sound pathetic. That she gets it. 

From the way she bares her teeth at him, he thinks so. 

“Oh, Arnold. Ever the gentleman.”

***

“Guess who was brewing Sumatra?” Rhonda practically sings, stirring Helga awake. She tosses around in the king-sized bed, groaning at the sight of the sun glaring through the windows. Rhonda gives her shoulders a shove, pulling her upright and shoving a to-go cup under her nose. “Wakey-wakey, Helga, it’s almost ten.”

The blonde sighs, grabbing the cup and eyeing the box of cookies she’d set on the nightstand. Rhonda’s hair is all mussed, makeup from the night before smeared around her eyelids. She’s wearing a set of clothes that clearly don’t belong to her -- too-loose sweatpants and an old marching band tee. Helga smirks at her. 

“I see _you_ had a good night.” 

“I see _you_ didn’t,” Rhonda muses, grabbing her leopard-print robe. She plucks off her earrings and starts stripping down. “What are you abusing your spare-keycard privileges for? Did something happen last night?”

“Lila and I broke up,” she grunts. She sinks against the headboard and stuffs a cookie in her mouth. 

“ _Wow_ , what a surprise!” Rhonda exclaims. Helga throws a pillow at her bare ass. “Hey! What do you look so miserable for? Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“Not like this,” Helga groans. Rhonda ties the sash around her waist and wanders off to fill the tub. “I’m a lunatic, Rhonda -- I feel like such an asshole.”

“Uh, didn’t she cheat on you too?” she calls back. 

“Not the _point_ , Rhonda,” she sighs, exaggeratedly. “I was just -- thinking a lot last night, and…”

Rhonda comes back around, brushing out the tangles in her silky hair. The faucet is still going. Steam is fogging the mirrors and Helga can smell the pungent scent of overripe berries and sandalwood. As if it weren’t already a little harder to breathe. 

She sips her too-hot coffee, watching her friend sink onto the foot of the too-big bed. 

“He shouldn’t have waited for me, but he did,” she says, staring at a loose thread on the duvet. She picks at it. “He did. And now he’s in the palm of my hand, but...I still keep running from him, because...because -- ”

\-- _because that’s all I know_ , she thinks. _Because that’s all I can do. Because I have to, before he can leave me first. Because I’m unworthy. Because I don’t deserve_ \-- 

(there’s not a lot that rhonda wellington-lloyd understands.) (if she had to categorize her short list of friends, her name wouldn’t be so much as _adjacent_ to the “relatable” section) (but there _is_ one thing rhonda understands better than anyone else.) 

“ -- If you wait until you deserve him, you’re gonna be waiting forever, Helga.” 

It’s not a dig at her -- just the truth. There’s no comfort in her words, almost ever, because that’s not who they are as friends. It’s that sting she needs, plain and poignant. (her honesty is a comfort in itself.) Rhonda grins at her, knowingly, smug and irritating and proud -- and right. Oh, fuck her. She’s fucking right, yet again. Helga hiccups on a laugh. 

“Honestly, Helga,” she starts. Her dark eyes are soft. “What do you think I did? That I just...forgot about my self-loathing for long enough to fuck Curly in peace? I don’t _have_ peace! I’m still disgusted with myself! That shit doesn’t just _leave_ you, Helga -- but it shouldn’t stop you from getting what you want.”

Helga laughs again, that stinging behind her eyes. She clutches her black coffee and sniffles. “God, Rhonda...you’d think two pep talks would be enough, huh?”

“I needed _three_ from Nadine alone,” she offers, and then she’s laughing, too. She shrugs her shoulders, heaving a sigh. “You’re not just gonna stop hating yourself overnight, Helga.”

She snorts, coughing up cookie bits and snickering, covering her mouth as her grin splits wider. 

“You think _I_ ever get what I deserve?” she cocks an eyebrow. “ _God_ no -- everything I’ve ever had, I got because it either threw itself at me, or I took it. There’s no rhyme or reason for it, Helga. Life doesn’t care whether or not you ‘deserve’ what you get. It just happens -- and it just so happens that Arnold loves you so much more than you hate yourself.”

_Arnold_ loves you. She turns over the words in her head, different voices echoing the same phrase, again and again. (just because she shouldn’t believe it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.) She blubbers again, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “He thought I was leading him on,” she whines, lingering embarrassment from yesterday. “And who could blame him? I’ve been a fucking basket-case all week!”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to prove you weren’t,” Rhonda says, matter-of-factly. Her smile is still intact. She rises up from the bed. “I swear to God, Helga, you better not let him get on that plane tomorrow. If you do, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Helga can’t help but grin, turning her nose up at her friend. “Your lame empty threats won’t work on me, Princess.” 

“I’ve ended friendships over less, Pataki,” she reminds her, winking. “Now go get cleaned up, the cosmetics team will be here in an hour -- we’ve got a wedding to get ready for.”

***

There _is_ someone there to do his hair, it turns out. After a hot shower, Arnold would report to Gerald’s suite to get his nose powdered and his hair doused in aerosol spray. Pretty women in black and white pass around little coffees and finger sandwiches while men who speak only French blow-dry their hair and massage their hands. It’s a strange, out-of-body experience for Arnold, who’s gone several consecutive days without showering more often than he’s willing to admit, but Gerald looks in his element. At ease and comfortable with people tending to him, pampering him. Watching his best friend indulge himself is rewarding in itself. He makes the girls giggle and twirl their hair as he gets his goatee trimmed. Gerald has always been a handsome guy, but today he looks different. Like he’s glowing, from the inside-out. He flashes him a million-dollar smile, and Arnold thinks about the first time they made up their handshake, back when they were three.

“Gerald?” he starts, once the stylists leave the room. “I’m so happy you’re my best friend.” 

His bottom lip quivers, just a little. “Man -- it’s too early for this weepy shit, come _onnn_ \-- ” 

He throws his arms around him, cradling the back of his head. He can hear Gerald sniffling over his shoulder. If nothing else, he’s so happy to be here, for him. 

It’s lunch hour by the time they’re done. As per Johanssen tradition, the bride and groom go out to eat separately, alone with their respective families, and the rest of their guests are ushered into the ballroom for a small banquet before the ceremony.

It’s still early, so everyone is mucking about in various states of dress, in their morning loungewear or gym clothes. The bridal party looks a little funny in particular, makeup and hair styled to perfection, but still in their baggy sweats. Arnold feels especially stupid himself, with his blonde hair coiffed in a rather old-fashioned style he isn’t totally sold on -- but if the way Eugene’s jaw hits the table when he sits down to eat means anything, he must not look completely ridiculous. 

“Holy _moly_ , Arnold,” Eugene would almost swoon, “you look like a _dreamboat_ , and you’re not even in a suit yet!”

“Th-Thanks, Eugene,” he says, bashfully, burying his nose in his cup of water. 

“ _I’ll say_ , damn,” Sid agrees, elbowing Stinky next to him. “You got any plans after this, Shortman?” 

His boyfriend rolls his eyes, chuckling into his mimosa as Arnold laughs along, blushing hotly. 

“You guys are too much -- ” 

“Oh, we’re just teasin’ ya, Arnold,” Stinky assures him, winking. “We know you only got eyes for Madame Fortress Mommy. Surprised I haven’t heard her howlin’ outside your door yet.” 

His chuckles turn awkward very quickly. Arnold dabs at his cheek with a napkin, thankful he’s only drank water thus far. The nauseous bubbling has started to simmer in the pit of his stomach. Word spreads faster and farther in this webbing of old friends than wildfire, so of course they’ve heard about Lila and Phoebe’s pretty bridesmaid. Whatever they’re saying about them and Helga, though, he doesn’t hear, because he’s caught her eye -- staring at him, from way across the ballroom. 

Unlike him, she _is_ already dressed, laced up in elegant hunter-green satin, one of her long, slender legs peeking out from a generous slit in the gown. His heart _stops_. That, or he can no longer discern one beat from the next. A frantic rhythm he can feel everywhere, in his chest, in his ears, out of time with the string of violins he swears is playing somewhere nearby. Her hair is down, for the first time he’s seen all week -- that he’s seen in well over a decade, tumbling around her shoulders in delicate, old-Hillwood style curls. The curtain of her bangs graces the thick fan of her lashes. His mother’s favorite kind of flower tucked neatly on either side of her head. White lilies. 

He’s staring now, too. He knows he is. It seems his table-mates have finally noticed her, because Stinky’s voice pulls him out of his trance. He follows his line of sight. “Ah, well would ya look at that.”

“Oh, I just love seeing Helga so dressed up,” Eugene coos. “She looks like an angel.” 

“I still can’t believe we used to complain about her pushing us around,” Sid elbows Stinky. “She could step on me and I’d say ‘thank-you’ -- ” 

“I’ll be right back, guys,” Arnold says quickly, without looking back at any one of them. They dissolve into chortles, Sid cupping his mouth to let out a little “AWOO!” as Stinky mutters something that sounds like “oh no you won’t!” He almost trips on himself in his shuffle across the room, face burning hotter the closer he gets. 

She’d tried to play it off as if she weren’t looking, as if she hadn’t been gaping at him the past however-many minutes. She talks closely with Rhonda, who’s also fully dressed, but their raven-haired friend would show her no such mercy. She smirks at Arnold, touching a hand lightly to Helga’s shoulder as she jerks her head in his direction. Politely, she waves at him, darting off toward the refreshments table, leaving the blondes to ogle each other like two awkward kids on prom night.

“H-Hey, Arnold,” she sputters, her voice pitchy and high. She folds her arms across her chest, the thing she always does when she really wants to run and hide, to disappear. Her face is a brilliant shade of rose, a near perfect match to her glossy lipstick. He wets his mouth, determined not to let his gaze rest there too long. His eyes drift lower and then he has to make a conscious effort to keep from lingering there, too, at the soft swell of her chest, pushed up in the deep sweetheart cut of her dress. The pounding of blood in his ears gets just a little louder. 

“H...Hey,” he stammers, hardly feeling like breathing is within his capabilities. If he hadn’t already felt silly before, he absolutely does now, standing a full head shorter than her in her red-bottom heels with his tea-stained henley hanging off his shoulders. “Y-You um...wow, you’re so...you look…” 

She giggles, just a breath of one, hiding her face-splitting grin beneath her hand. “Jesus, Arnold, are you _always_ this articulate?”

“Only around you,” he quips, lowering his eyelids, leaning in just a little closer. She scoffs, slapping his arm -- but she doesn’t back away. 

“Shut up, you’re so embarrassing -- ” 

“You’re even worse,” he challenges her, lifting a brow, and this gets a laugh out of her, loud and barking. 

“Oh, trust me, Arnold, you have _no_ idea,” she tells him, dripping sarcasm. 

“Oh, don’t I?” he says, boldly, unblinking as she peers down her nose at him. Bolder yet, he reaches for one of the flowers in her hair, brushing his thumb along the wispy lily-petals. Her throat works down a visible swallow. “You should give me one.” 

She makes a choking, stammering noise, chewing her bottom lip between her teeth. She’s going to ruin her lipstick like that. He wants to tell her so badly that he can think of a much better way to do so, but alas, Rhonda would come sauntering back to them, clutching the train of her bridesmaid gown. 

“Hey -- Helga,” she starts, “Phoebe’s back, c’mon, we have to get upstairs.” 

“Coming,” Helga says quickly, a little louder than she must have intended. She lifts the hem of her gown and moves to follow her out to the lobby, but before walking away, she grins. “Don’t think I’m done with you, Football Head.” 

“Oh, I hope not,” he teases. He can hardly contain himself. She blushes fiercely, the vision of her striking face only stoking the fire already roaring deep within him. He chews his cheek, bites his finger to hold back an impish smile as he practically skips back to the table. All week, he’s felt as though a harpsichord string had been pulled taut between them -- and today, even just now, he can swear he’s just felt it snap.

***

Something old: an ankle bracelet, sterling silver with dangling charms -- butterflies and cherries. One of those do-it-yourself kits from the late nineties. Helga and Phoebe made them together at one of their first slumber parties. She’s worried it might not fit her anymore, but Helga doesn’t think she realizes how small she still is, even almost twenty years later. Her ankles were always so petite.

Something new: the dress itself, of course. Ivory-white with an open back, an eyelash lace overlay. A simple A-line dress, elegant and sophisticated. Long-sleeves, which surprised everyone, especially for a summer wedding, but Phoebe had always been a little self-conscious about her arms. Her mother started crying when she tried it on, and that made the decision for her.

Something borrowed: earrings, fourteen-carat white-gold. Dangle earrings, prong-set with teardrop-shaped diamonds. Rhonda’s, a gift from her parents over ten years ago. She wore them to prom. Phoebe isn’t crazy about jewelry as it is, but her eyes light up when Rhonda presents them to her. 

Something blue: one of Helga’s old hair ribbons. Tied around her left thigh, in place of the traditional garter. They’re not going to do that silly little tug-o’-war game at the reception, anyway. Helga makes a double-knot, just to make sure it won’t slip down off her leg. 

“There we go,” she says, helping her stand up again in front of the floor-length mirror. Phoebe’s mother comes in with the veil in hand, tears in her eyes. Rhonda scurries over to make certain she doesn’t have a hair out of place, and then Reba tucks the flower-crown on her daughter’s head, all lilies and baby’s breath. Helga doesn’t even realize she’s teary until Rhonda starts getting choked up. 

“Oh, you guys,” Phoebe starts, a little wibbly herself. “Don’t start yet!”

“I’m not, what are you talking about?” Helga argues uselessly, dabbing her ring finger under her eyes. 

“You ready, ladies?” Reba asks, sniffling as she pulls the veil over Phoebe’s face. She smiles, brighter than the August moon, and her mother coughs. “Oh, mercy, listen to me, weepy already -- oh, Phoebe, honey...my little angel.” 

“Oh, Mother,” Phoebe whimpers, hugging her. Helga lets her head hang back, staring at the ceiling to keep the tears from dripping down and ruining her foundation. Laughing when she spots Rhonda doing the same thing. She fans herself, swallowing thickly. 

“Alright, alright, let’s not keep ‘em waiting.”

They file out to the courtyard together, past the fountains to the gazebo, where Gerald and the groomsmen and friends are waiting to take photos. The guys have Gerald blindfolded with Harold’s tie. 

“Do I look okay?” Phoebe whispers to Helga. The same thing she asked her when they were eleven and waiting outside the Avon. The night of her first date. Phoebe in a red sweater-dress with a sleek bun, and contacts. She looks just as unsure of herself, smiling up at her with a worried brow. Helga’s really got to stop it with the tears. 

“ _Kimatte ru ne_ , Phoebe,” she tells her, in Japanese. She squeezes her hand, and her tiny best friend coughs on a poorly stifled sob.

***

It’s stuffy in the captain’s cabin. The bridal party is lounging there, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Everyone else is seated up on the main deck, where Gerald and Sid are waiting at the bow. Rhonda checks Phoebe’s makeup for the third time in an hour, situating her veil and rearranging her bouquet as Helga fiddles with the lilies in her hair absently, stealing glances at Arnold in the many mirrors hanging on the walls. Jamie-O whispers something to him and his heavenly laugh rings out like a bell, his smile bright and glowing.

Oh, he’s so handsome it’s stupid. Absolutely fucking stupid, she thinks, blushing furiously in the back corner of the room. The way the one curl of his flaxen hair is poised so perfectly above his brow -- the way his waistcoat hugs his tapered middle in a snug, tight fit -- the way his face seems to blossom a deeper shade of magenta every time she catches his eye. He keeps biting his unfairly pink lips, fluttering his stupidly long eyelashes. She keeps hearing God whenever he laughs. How anyone can stand to hold eye contact with him for longer than point-two seconds is beyond her, like looking upon a biblical imagining of an angel. If she stares too long she’s so sure her eyes will burn out. 

The first bars of the wedding march echo from up the stairs, and Kim and Stinky start making off for their entrance. Arnold weaves between Jamie-O and Timberly and the others, clutching a tiny antique box and beaming at her. She purses her lips. 

“Hey,” he starts, quietly. 

“Double-duty as ring-bearer, huh?” she guesses, heart in her throat. 

“Yeah,” he says, bashful, his cheeks a brilliant rose-red. Maybe they put makeup on him, too, or maybe he’s just as nervous and anxious as she is. “Did Phoebe show you already?”

Helga shakes her head. “Only a few pictures, but…”

Arnold grins something wicked, flipping open the box. “Here.” 

“Wow,” Helga marvels, breathlessly. The ring is simple, but beautiful -- a plain band of white-gold, studded with quartzite gems. It sparkles when the light catches it.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he says, watching her eyes. 

“I’ll say,” Helga says. He plucks it from the little bed of velvet and reaches for her left hand, lifting it. Her jaw falls open. “A-Arnold?” 

“S-Sorry, I just…” His voice trembles. He pockets the box, and her hand is enveloped in the warmth of his palm as he slowly, carefully slips the ring onto her finger. 

Helga’s breath hitches, her eyes glued to the shimmering band, to the breathtaking vision of her hand in Arnold’s. Her pale, knobby fingers shaking in his bigger, broader palm. Her heart races.

“Criminey, that’s pretty,” she struggles to choke out, but Arnold’s not looking at the ring. 

“You are.” 

She lifts her eyes, watching his go dim. That old familiar sleepy-dreamy look upon his tender face. “A-Arnold…”

“Pssst, hey, you two, come on, we gotta start walkin’ in a minute here!” Timberly whisper-yells at them, jolting them out of their shared daze. 

“Oh, crap, here, can you -- ?” Arnold stammers, motioning for the ring as he fishes the box out of his pocket.

Helga panics, twisting at the ring. It’s not coming off as easily as it had slipped on. “Um, Arnold? It’s not -- fuck, it’s not coming off!”

“W-Wait,” he stutters, holding her hand again. “Wait a second, here…”

He grabs her finger, his eyes flickering toward hers before lifting it to his lips. Helga’s breathing stops short. She freezes, unmoving as she watches the following happen almost in slow-motion: Arnold, parting his mouth open just so, his tongue darting out to make room to fit her slender digit inside. His lips wrapping around her. His teeth grating against her skin just ever-so gently -- the hollows of his cheeks sunken in as he sucks the ring off her finger. 

“H-Holy mother…” 

It slides off easily, her wet finger drawn from his mouth with a soft pop. The tip of her finger ghosts over his reddened lips. He makes an audible gulp, a hazy look in his eyes as he pulls the handkerchief from his breast pocket. 

“S-Sorry, Helga,” he says shakily, barely audible over the pounding of her heart. “I don’t know what came over me -- ”

“M-Maybe we don’t tell Gerald and Phoebe about that,” she says hoarsely, clutching her hand to her chest. 

He nods vigorously, fumbling for some hand sanitizer as Timberly pokes her head through the doorway again. “You guys ready? You’re up!” 

Arnold stashes the ring, holding out his arm for her and she loops hers through it, shuddering at their new points of contact and hoping her face isn’t as scarlet as his is. They ascend up to the main deck, the glittering sunlight dancing along the horizon. The Golden Hour is upon them. The warmth of the summer air is crisp and inviting. 

Slowly, they follow the white carpet to the bridge, stealing glances at each other and at their friends already seated. Helga scans the aisles for Lila and spots her, next to Olga, pretty and prim in a frilly pink dress. Her smile is all teeth, wide enough to crack her little face in two. Contagious, soothing. She feels embraced. Arnold’s hand twitches at her side and she hopes to Whoever’s Up There he doesn’t hear the pitchy, breathy sigh that escapes her throat. 

They reach the makeshift altar, and that is when they part, taking their seats on either side of Sid, who will officiate. Timberly and Jamie-O join them, and after Rhonda comes the bride, radiant and tearful and held by her father Kyo. Gerald dissolves into chuckles, rubbing his hands together and swallowing tears, happier than Helga has ever seen him. The sniffles are coming back, worsening when Phoebe kisses her father’s cheek and takes her place next to Gerald. 

“Please be seated,” Sid announces, waving with a mic in hand. 

“Good afternoon, everybody -- boy howdy, what a beautiful day for a wedding, huh?” Sid says. “We’re all so happy to have you gathered here together today. Usually, when I get up in front of you all, I just introduce whatever monster or cryptid we’ve been gossiping about the past hour and then pass it off to Gerald, but, seeing as he’s the other half of our legend, he’s gotta leave the story-telling to me, today.” (ripples of laughter punctuate his quip, and gerald and sid wink at each other.) 

“I was the first person to find out Gerald and Phoebe were dating,” he reminisces. “Totally by accident! It was fifth grade, a month before school let out. I was riding my scooter back from the arcade, and I saw them holding hands under the table at Slausen’s. They had no clue I saw ‘em. I jet-setted off for Stinky’s house and we called Harold over and it was all we talked about the rest of that night. I’ll never forget that dopey look on Arnold’s face the next day.” (arnold snorts on the opposite end of the bow, covering his mouth.) “He was so appalled we figured it out before poor Gerald could tell him. And then of course Helga had to show us all up, spitting her whole spiel of ‘doi, welcome to two weeks ago geek-wads, you seriously just figured it out? Yeesh! You’re a regular old detective squad, huh?’” (helga herself splits into giggles, feeling arnold’s longing eyes on her as she throws her head back in laughter.) “Oh, it was a time. We were ecstatic, for them, though. They were just so cute. They didn’t seem to fit quite right, at first glance. Gerald’s an _artiste_ , a doer, a man of action -- and Phoebe is a thinker, pragmatic and logical. A left and right brain. Opposites, in a lot of ways. They had almost nothing in common, their lives on two completely different tracks. It just didn’t make sense, when we were kids.”

(gerald and phoebe gaze fondly at one another, smiling tearfully.)

“So it was no surprise when they split. Phoebe went off to study abroad when we were sixteen, and I didn’t see her again until we were twenty-three. I remember the day Gerald told me she was coming back. We were working on his latest short film, getting ready for the Moondance Festival, and he told me he was gonna ask her. I got my shit rocked.” (the guests start laughing again. harold is particularly loud.) “I couldn’t believe he was just gonna go for it, right on their first date. Another thing that just didn’t make sense. Joke’s on us, though, right?” (gerald winks at phoebe, who reaches to clutch both his hands.) “Yeah, ‘cause I look at them now, right here, just as they are, and I think -- how could it not make sense? How did it ever not? There was just something we didn’t get, back then. Something they always understood, whether or not they could put it into words for the rest of us. So, Gerald, Phoebe, if you guys are ready…”

The bride and groom turn to face Sid, both grinning brightly enough to put the evening sun to shame. 

“A ring is a perfect circle,” he begins, “No beginning and no end, symbolic of love and of commitment, both of which define marriage and union. If the best man would please present the rings...”

Arnold stands up, opening the box for Gerald, who takes them gently in his hands. He winks at Helga, and she stutters through a giggle. Already crying.

“Thanks Arnold. Okay, folks, if we got any naysayers in the house, now is the time.”

“Yeah, I got an objection!” Gerald’s brother’s voice booms from the other side of the bow, irritating as ever, but it gets a funny reaction out of everyone else -- Gerald almost throws his boutonniere at him.

“Anyone but Jamie-O, speak now, or forever hold your peace,” Sid says smugly, gesturing toward the guests. “Nobody? Cool, let’s get some vows exchanged! Startin’ with you, Phoebe!”

The small woman nods, giggling and shuffling her feet in place like a little kid. 

“Ahem -- do you, Phoebe Akemi Heyerdahl, vow to take this man’s hand in marriage in front of God and everyone, to have him and to hold him for all the days you both shall live?”

“I do!” she chirps.

“Nice! And do you, Gerald Martin Johanssen, vow to take this woman’s hand in marriage in front of God and everyone, to have her and to hold her for all the days you both shall live?”

“I do!” he says, his voice cracking. His shaking hand fits her ring onto her finger, and she slides its partner onto his. 

“Sick, then on my honor, I proudly pronounce you husband and wife!” Sid announces gleefully. “Phoebe, you may kiss your groom!” 

With an eager grin and a leap forward, Helga watches her best friend jump into her husband’s arms, too excited to even pull the veil back so they can properly kiss. Gerald stumbles a little, everyone watching applauding and laughing heartily as he tosses her flower crown to the floor, finally out of the way. He lifts her up and twirls her around. And the moment their lips lock, Helga finds Arnold’s eyes. Glimmering with a yearning that could burn a hole through her heart.

Tonight, she thinks, willing he would hear the thought. He’s already waited this long, he can wait until tonight.

***

The lights are dim in the stateroom. Chit-chat and laughter bounce off the cabin walls, the clinking of glasses and buzzing of smooth jazz filling the room. Arnold floats from table to table, making idle small talk with everyone as the reception gets started. Gerald and Phoebe have changed into more comfortable attire for dancing through the night, both of them dressed in attractive black swing clothes, smiles glittering from their podium at the back of the room. Their hands are clasped together on their table, candles flickering about them as guests come up and take turns greeting and joking with them. Sid nods at Arnold from the other end -- the drums and speakers are set up, and it’s almost time for the first dance. He darts over to borrow a mic, wincing when it hisses on. He clears his throat.

“Um -- this is working, right?” 

The guests mumble and meander back to their tables, settling in and looking over at him expectantly. He can feel Gerald beaming at him, and suddenly that’s all there is. His shoulders slug, relaxing. Arnold smiles.

“Hey, guys. Um. I’m Arnold, for those of you who haven’t met me, or don’t remember me,” he starts, grinning at a few chuckles around the room. “Um -- I had a whole speech prepared, I really did. I wrote it down at the docks and everything, but -- now that I’m standing before you all, I kind of just -- don’t remember any of it, so I’m just gonna wing it.” 

There’s more ripples of laughter throughout the room, but it’s comfortable, inviting and safe. Gerald laughs the loudest, clapping and biting his fist. 

“Gerald, I’ve known you my whole life,” he says, already getting choked up. Gerald’s smile disappears, replaced with an expression most heartfelt, almost pained. He can see his tears from several feet away and it makes his breath hitch. “That first day at daycare, I looked at you, and you looked at me, and you just straight up asked me if I wanted to be best friends, and I said yes. Kids are so funny, like that, you know? They’ll look at another kid and just say ‘that one’, and then that’s it. You’re best friends.” (more chuckles.) “Gerald, I had no idea that day that we would end up where we are, but I’m so, so happy we got here. You were the voice inside my head. You looked out for me, you kept it real with me, you protected me -- you were perfect.” (gerald laughs through his tears and phoebe swipes her thumb under his eyes. “no, you!” he shouts back at him, smiling and shaking his head.) “No, you were. You were. I’ve been so lucky to have you, Gerald. And I can think of no one better than Phoebe to be loved by you.” (it’s phoebe’s turn to start sobbing.) (she laughs through it, fanning herself to catch her breath.) (arnold hears helga awkwardly giggling through sobs.) “I hope you look out for her, Gerald.” (“i will!” he calls out to him, blubbering, and arnold’s heart swells.) “I hope you keep it real with her, and you protect her, just like you’ve done for me. I l-love you both, so-ho very much -- ”

Sniffling and crying erupts all across the stateroom. Arnold barely makes it through his last sentence before Gerald leaps from his table, laughing and coughing out sobs like a little fourth-grader. He wraps his arms around Arnold, and they hold each other, listening to the clapping and cheering and crying surrounding them. Phoebe shuffles over and joins them, kissing Arnold on both cheeks, reaching out a hand to beckon Helga over. 

She does so, sniveling and cackling and holding out her arms to hug Phoebe first, and then the guys wrap themselves around them, all four of them molding into a shuddering stack of limbs. Their other friends stand up to applaud, Harold’s loud wailing causing eruptions of awkward laughter as the others take turns chortling and sobbing. There’s a brief screech of a microphone as Sid taps it to life, snorting loud enough for everyone in the stateroom to hear. 

“Oof, sorry about that guys,” he apologizes, and the others laugh with him. “Uh, I hate to break up this uh -- love-fest we got going on, but Mauve Storm has a surprise for the newlyweds.” 

The couple breaks apart from the blondes, kissing their cheeks before scuttling back to their places at the head table, and Helga gathers herself before joining Sid under the spotlights, hugging him as she takes the mic. Arnold settles back down at his table, between Eugene and Lila, watching her with a racing heart. Harold whoops, and Helga groans loud enough for every guest to hear.

“Oh pipe down -- no, you’re not getting a speech outta me, too. Don’t think I coulda topped that one, anyway, so.” (she steals a glance at arnold, who bites back a grin.) “Don’t worry, DJ’s in the back, you won’t have to listen to us all night.” (several exaggerated groans.) “Yeah, you’re real disappointed, I’m sure. Anyway. When I asked Pheebs what she wanted to hear for the first dance, she told me they didn’t have a song. Her and Gerald.” (there’s a few murmurs.) “I know, it’s weird, right? You’ve been together _how_ many years and you don’t have a song? Criminey. Anyway! So the boys and I thought it over, and I told them about the night Gerald told me he was gonna propose. We were parked outside The Bird Cage, down on Vine Street, totally not doing anything illegal.” (gerald’s cackle both confuses and delights arnold.) “He turns up the radio, and this song comes on, and we kind of just looked at each other, like, wow. This is something, huh? I remember staying up all night, that night, learning the chords. So, until you guys find your song -- I think this one makes a good a stand-in. Mister and Misses Johanssen, if you wanna proceed to the dance floor…”

The two of them rise, and hand-in-hand, they stride to the dance floor just as Stinky hits the keyboard. A dreamy, otherworldly tune resonates through his head, something that sounds strangely familiar. There’s a strum of guitar, and then Helga opens her mouth.

(“swinging in the backyard, pull up in your fast car, whistlin’ my name…”)

She sings, just the few words, but he recognizes the melody instantly. A song he remembers hearing on the radio years ago, on a long drive from Martina Gala to the Ciceria Plains. He scribbled the artist’s name on the back of a gas station receipt, bought the record on vinyl two weeks later. Lizzy Grant. There was an old-Hillwood-sad appeal to her that Gerald was obsessed with. All of her songs made him feel homesick, wistful. Longing for a different time. He chews on his lip, watching the way she sways. That forlorn look in her eyes like the words wound her too deeply to sing. 

The tears come flooding back. He glances sideways at Lila, who wrinkles her nose at him. She looks a little weepy herself. Eugene coughs out a sob, and that sets off Harold again, who openly cries when Gerald spins Phoebe around. Phoebe giggles and it echoes, and Helga has to pause, giggling tearfully as Sid and Stinky pick up the verse for her, smiling. 

She gestures out toward the other guests, and slowly, the others start to get up, taking a partner and dancing. Rhonda is quick in seizing Curly’s hand, and he follows her eagerly to the floor, grinning like mad and pulling her close. Nadine and Sheena are close behind, gazing softly at each other, wiping tears away, and then Lila gets up next to Arnold, holding out her hand for him to take. 

She smiles, ever-so sweetly. He looks up at her from his seat, and then looks over to Helga, as if to ask permission. Her face goes slack with a tender gaze, a nod as she sings again.

(“heaven is a place on earth with you.”) 

He takes Lila’s tiny, freckled hands in his. They glide across the floor, swaying along to the hum of Helga’s deep, rich voice. They pass Harold, who twirls his daughter around, chuckling and moving out of time. Eugene waves at them, tapping his feet and his cane and singing along. Brainy rocks on the balls of his feet, eyes closed and smiling, mouthing the words he knows. Arnold spins Lila around, delighted in the way she laughs so softly, in the way he feels Helga smiling at them. Olga taps on his shoulder, wanting to cut in and dance with her Lil’ Sis. He gives the redhead a hug before they part, stepping off to the side to watch Helga as she and Mauve Storm wrap it up. 

(“they say that the world was built for two, only worth living if somebody is loving you.”) 

The strum of guitar, the trill of the keyboard. Gerald’s hands at the back of Phoebe’s neck. Curly’s lips on Rhonda’s shoulder. Sheena’s hand on Nadine’s middle, Olga’s chin atop Lila’s head. Arnold stares at the spaces between his fingers. He feels warm and strangely cold, watching stray tears fall down Helga’s cheeks as she smiles against the microphone as the song draws to an end. The lights flicker, brightening just slightly as she thanks everyone for listening. 

Arnold approaches as the hired DJ moves in and helps them rearrange the equipment. 

“‘ _Video Games_ ’, huh?” he says to her. She snorts.

“I considered ‘ _Blue Jeans_ ’, but I figured that was more of an _us_ -song,” she snarks. 

“Oh yeah? How’s that one go?” he asks, feigning ignorance. She rolls her eyes.

“If you’re trying to get me to sing for you, Arnoldo, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.” 

“It’s okay, I think I remember,” he tells her, his voice a little quieter. He lifts a hand to ghost over the flowers tucked behind her ears again, watching the color bloom in her cheeks as he gently strokes the petals. 

Helga snatches his hand, her eyes helpless and swimming. “Don’t you start, Arnold, not until _after_ I’ve had dinner.” 

She lets out a reptilian growl as she pushes past him, hurrying off to their table as he breathes out a sigh, shaking his head, the voice of Lizzy Grant resonating within his memory. “Whatever you say, Helga.” 

(“i would wait a million years.”)

***

Arnold goes up to his room right after the reception lets out. It’s only nine, so most of the wedding party and his friends go back up to the Galaxy Lounge to drink a little more, dance a little more. He’s tired, though -- dancing-tired, party-tired. Tired of wearing this suit and neck-bow. He hugs his friends goodnight with the promise of breakfast in the morning, too sick to think of anything beyond that. The elevator ride is quiet and nauseating. Lonely.

It's been a magical night -- he can’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun, or felt that much love in one room. Surrounded by so many people who care about him, about each other. He doesn’t want to leave. 

He doesn’t have to. Not really. If he really wanted to, he could stay, just a little while longer. He thinks they’d understand. Sure, he misses the kids, and the nurses, and his parents -- his parents, most of all, and he feels more than a little pathetic for that. He hasn’t spent time away from them in well over a decade. This week had actually been the longest since they’d woken up, he realizes. It’s not as painful as it used to be. 

He turns down the east hall, already shrugging off his blazer. He glances out a nearby window, watching the streetlights and stars twinkle. He could stay, he thinks again. He could. He thinks about Gerald and Phoebe, and everyone else. About his grandparents, and the Sunset Arms. About the way Helga giggled and twirled around him on the dance floor, and then he realizes -- he wants to. 

He wants to stay. 

He swipes his keycard and tosses his coat on the floor, working the knot of his bowtie loose as a soft rapping comes at the door. 

His heart jumps to his throat. 

He flings the door open, nearly smacking himself with it. Helga is leaning against the frame, still dressed in all her finery, a playful, sly grin plastered on her pretty face. 

“Hey, Arnold,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he barely breathes. “I thought you went up with the others.”

“I was going to, but, um,” she hesitates, making a face. She coughs into the crook of her elbow. "I did tell you I wasn't finished with you, yet."

“Do you wanna come in?” he asks. Hardly hearing himself over the frantic thumping of his heart. She starts breathing faster, swaying on the spot for a moment before stepping far enough into the room for him to get the door closed behind her. Her face goes scarlet as soon as it clicks. 

“S-So,” she chirps, “Lila and I -- ”

“I know,” he interrupts her, swallowing thickly. “She told me.” 

“O-Oh, o-of course, right,” she stutters. 

“But you already knew that I knew,” he says, giving into the smirk that begs to curl upon his mouth. “That’s not what you came here to tell me.” 

Helga chokes on an inhale, wringing her hands together. “W-Well, _fuck_ , Arnoldo, if you already know, then -- then -- ”

“Helga, it’s okay,” he assures her, gentle persuasion. “You can tell me. It’s just me.” 

She rolls her eyes, scoffing as she swallows an awkward sob. “Y-Yeah, that’s just it, isn’t it, Arnold? It’s you -- it’s always been you.” 

She buries her face in her hands, heaving out a groan that decrescendos into an uncomfortable chortle. He knits his brow, leaning back against the wall, an awkward, patient smile on his face as he waits for her. For once, he doesn’t want to ask questions. He just wants to let her talk. 

“I never let go of you, Arnold,” she mutters from beneath her palms. She drags her fingers down her face, smudging her makeup just slightly. Shaking her head. “Never. As badly as I wanted to, as much as I thought I should, I just couldn’t.” She looks down at her hands, at the broken nail on her middle finger. She scratches her nose. “Even when I got rid of all my -- _stuff_ \-- I kept the one thing that reminded me I wasn’t a complete dumpster fire of a human being.”

“The locket,” he murmurs, and she breathes out a giggle. She nods quickly, wiping away a few stray tears. 

“You were the first person to see me, Arnold,” she croaks, finally meeting his eyes. Advancing upon him, edging ever closer. He can feel the chill of the hardwood wall behind him. “The first person who cared enough to look. My first everything, in a lot of ways.”

“N-Not everything, I don’t think,” he jokes, lighthearted and silly. She snorts, giggling coyly. Her fingers fumble with his bowtie and pull it looser. 

“Well, no, but we can fix that, I’m sure.”

“Y-Yeah?” he hums, a little too enthusiastically. His heart is skipping several beats. “Are you trying to seduce me, Helga G. Pataki?”

“What, by crying in your doorway?” she shakes her head, sniffling and grinning. Still so pretty, even when she cries. “Don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ , Arnold. Besides, I keep winding up in _your_ hotel room.”

“It’s _my_ back against the wall,” he offers, feeling his voice go a little husky. Helga swallows audibly. She’s close enough that her breath mingles with his. Her eyes are cloudy, wet mascara clinging to her lashes as she licks her glossy lips. She’s still clutching his neck bow. 

“Well _you’re_ the one looking at me like that.”

“Like what,” he whispers. Staring at her lips, only a hair’s breadth from his. 

She bends her head, winding a fist in his shirtfront. “Like you want to…”

Oh he _does_. Oh, how he wants to -- but he gasps, clutching her hands before she can close the distance completely between them.

“I wanted to tell you something, too,” he says, and she tilts her head, quizzical. “I ran into Mai Hyunh, last night. On my way to the bar.”

A flicker of something sparks in Helga’s eyes. “...Mai Hyunh? Here?”

“In the hotel, yeah,” he answers. “She’s here on business, she said. But you know what she told me?”

“W-What?”

“That a little girl told her where to find her father, twenty years ago,” Arnold manages to tell her, his breathing unsteady. He inhales sharply through his nostrils, looking up at her through half-lidded eyes, watching hers dim at half-mast. Stormy-blue and shimmering and dry of tears, now, the amber light of the hallway lamp catching the powdery highlight on her cheeks. 

“Helga...your heart is the purest I know, so much so it makes _mine_ feel like it’ll burst,” he says, raspily, watching her jaw fall slack. “You never needed me to be a good person, Helga. You do that all on your own. But if I’ve helped you see it for yourself, then…” 

Arnold releases her hands, moving his to float down her arms, to find her waist. To clutch at the smallest part of it, feeling the silky fabric under his palms. Wondering how hot her skin must feel beneath it. “I’m happy to have done that, and even happier that you’ve let other people see it, too.”

He looks up at her face, flushed a bright pink -- she’s biting on her knuckles, staring down at him with glossy, hazy eyes. 

“Helga? You okay?”

She giggles breathily, turning her face away from his and rubbing her temples. “I literally just joked about having sex with you -- a-and then you put your hands on me and suddenly it feels like I’m going to into cardiac arrest -- ”

He hums through a chortle, feeling a flush of heat surging under his collar. “You have a s-similar effect on me, if that weren’t obvious already.” 

“A-Arnold,” she stutters his name. He smiles at her, eager and expectant, and she slaps his hands away, off of her hips. “G-God, stop looking at me like that! I’m trying to tell you something, here, and I can’t think straight when you’re just -- _drinking_ me with those bedroom eyes!”

“S-Sorry!” he yelps -- he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Do you -- want me to turn around, or something? Would that help?”

Helga lifts an eyebrow, cocking her hip and considering. “Actually, yes, just -- just face the wall, then.” (he does.) “Great. Hoo, fuck. Jesus.” (she melts into nervous giggles.) (arnold lays his palms flat against the wood.) “Haha, Christ, this is so pathetic.”

“No it’s not, Helga,” he tries to comfort her, sincerely. “Whatever makes it easier for you -- anything you need, I’ll do it -- ” 

\-- and she would respond in kind, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and hitting him hard on the back (ow) -- “Jesus Christ, Arnold, don’t be so kind! God, you make it too easy to _need_ you, too hard to be without you...” 

Her voice goes a bit softer. Helga reaches for his hands, presses herself into his back. He has to hold back a moan -- she’s so warm, everywhere. Her chest pushed up against his shoulder blades. He can feel her heartbeat thudding along his spine.

“I don’t know why, after all this time, even though I’ve definitely done it before, it’s still so difficult to just tell you -- ” (her lips brush against the shell of his ear, and then he _does_ moan.) (he can’t help it.) 

“I love you, Arnold,” she speaks softly, her voice high and breathy. The sound of it shoots like Cupid’s arrow right through to his heart. It’s beating so hard, now. He’s almost worried it’ll dent the wall.

“Oh, God, how I love you -- ” (he pivots to turn around, aching to grab her and mold their mouths together, but she balls a fist in his shirt again, shoving him hard against the wall.) “Don’t even _think_ about turning around, Football Head, I _will_ strangle you!” (that shouldn’t sound hot.) (but it does.) 

“Fuck, Arnold, I love you,” she says again, a little louder. She smooths her hands over his back. They travel lower, lower, reaching around to fiddle with the buttons of his waistcoat. Arnold keens, biting down on his bottom lip as he feels her fingers at work. Slipping them past the dip in his shirt. Her lips grace the nape of his neck and her touch is so searing hot, too hot. His temperature is climbing so fast. 

“I’ve loved you my whole life,” she goes on. Her nails graze the bare expanse of his chest and he’s shaking, a dark pulse thrumming low in his gut. (and she had the gall to say _he_ was too easy to need.) “God, I -- I was stupid, so stupid to have ever let you go, but I was so sure you’d realize you were too good for me, and I was content to love you from afar, but then you came back -- ” 

The strain in his pants quickly graduates from uncomfortable to agonizing. Each beat of his heart threatens to crack his ribs. Arnold grits his teeth, struggling to breath, fighting not to completely pass out in her arms. 

“You did the one thing I never expected and came back,” she says. She wraps her fingers around his throat and he gulps. She’s shivering so violently against him, he would be worried had he not known better. (he knows better.) (he remembers when she used to shiver like that.) “You told me that you still -- you still...”

“I still make you tremble,” he rasps, smiling. Too smug for a man in his compromising position. She giggles devilishly in his ear. Her other hand is sliding down the front of his pants. 

“I’m not the one who’s trembling, Arnold.” 

He pivots again. This time, Helga doesn’t stop him. There’s a knowing slant to her smile that tells him she wanted him to turn around, to pin her against the wall instead. His trembling hands find the dip in her narrow waist again as her fingers yank the tie off from around his neck. They suck in each other’s air for a brief moment, before Arnold crushes his mouth against hers in a deep, bruising kiss. 

He’d wanted to go slowly this time. He really did. What could have been a sweet, romantic, finally-have-you kiss rapidly shifts into something just as desperate and needy as their previous two, and Arnold finds that he’s fine with that. More than -- he hears Helga moan from somewhere deep within and decides that this is preferable, actually. She kisses him like she needs him, like she _has_ to have him. He can feel how badly she wants him with every slip of her tongue, and it makes him want her even more. 

He tugs on her lip with his teeth. She groans his name, raking her hands through his hair and thrusting her hips against him. Arnold sighs into her mouth, the barrier of clothing between them suddenly so infuriating that he starts clawing at her chest. Feeling her heart hammering under his touch. She’s so soft, every inch of her. Her lips, her neck, her chest. He snakes a hand through the slit in her gown, groaning when he feels the strap of a garter holding her stockings in place. 

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” he murmurs against her lips. 

“You should be so lucky,” is her snooty comeback. She laughs into his mouth. Winds her fists in his open shirt to pull him even closer. His hips are almost flush with hers. 

Arnold bites her lip again, his head reeling as she squirms against him. He slips his hand between her thighs and she hisses, her nails painting streaks of red across his chest. 

“Don’t be a tease,” she warns him, panting already though his fingers have barely graced her entrance. He wrinkles his nose at her. 

“What’re _you_ gonna do about it?” he dares, mocking her. He’s asking for it, he knows it. Helga seizes his waist, nearly lifting him off the floor as she pushes him toward the bed, kissing him harshly the few steps it takes to get there. She pins him against the mattress and crawls over him, grinding her hips against him as she smothers him with open-mouthed kisses. Each one makes his breath hitch anew, makes his heart throb. She sucks a bruise into his neck that shoots right to his groin, makes his brain fog and his eyes roll back. 

“Do you have -- _any_ idea -- how long I’ve waited to do this?” she asks him, through deep and heaving breaths. An ironic chuckle slips from this throat. 

“I know all about waiting.” 

Arnold clutches her shoulders, his blunt fingertips digging into her skin as she bites, kisses, sucks at his skin. His neck, his chest, his stomach. Lower. He lurches, groaning through his teeth. He has half a mind to beg for mercy, but a darker part of him is reveling in her ferocity, her ruthlessness. He doesn’t want her to be gentle. She kisses like she makes to devour him, and he thinks he yearns for that. She drags her teeth across his chest, presses a searing kiss over his heart. Her touch is unforgiving and desperate and he aches for more, wants to drown in her intoxicating affections. 

“God, Arnold,” she groans, quivering, her shaking hands squeezing his throat. She murmurs against his skin, kissing a trail along his rib cage. “I love you -- I love you -- I love you so much I could tear you apart -- ”

“You could do whatever you want,” he says, breathless and mindless, dizzy from her ministrations. The ache at the front of his pants _hurts_ , badly. In a _bad_ way. He chews his bottom lip, thrusting up into her. “But Helga, please -- if it’s alright -- I really -- ”

She pauses, perking her head up, countenance completely shifting to one of concern as her thick brows wind together. “What? What do you need?” 

“Do you have protection on you?” 

Helga huffs impatiently, narrowing her eyes at him as the worry vanishes from her face. “Critical thinking skills, Arnold, you think _I_ have condoms on me?” 

Oh, right. He snorts at himself. Yeah, that was a stupid question. She shakes her head, a funny grin on her face as he props himself up on his elbows. 

“S-Sorry, I just…” 

Her eyes wilt, the color in her face flooding back as she repositions herself on top of him, tracing the muscles in his stomach with the tip of her index finger. “Just...what?”

“Want to be inside you,” he finishes, his voice trembling. Helga’s eyes glass over, a sigh bursting from her throat as she dives down to kiss him with fervor. She breaks it off right as he falls into it, leaping off of him to fumble for her clutch-purse forgotten near the doorway. 

Arnold sits up, watching her with a curious eye, his heart pulsing with a maddening surge of arousal when she turns around, a rubber between her fingers. 

“Nicked a spare from Rhonda’s room.” 

She winks at him and he flops back against the mattress with a groan, aggravation and relief waving over him like the tide.

“I lied, you’re terrible, actually,” he teases her, laughing into the crook of his elbow. She crawls back on top of him and kisses him, gently now, so slowly it’s agonizing. “The worst.” (another kiss.) “A bad girl.” (another kiss, harder this time.) 

“Bad as they come,” she growls. She grabs him by his open collar, pulls him upright to kiss him harshly, deeply, releasing him only to tug at the zipper at the side of her dress. All-too earnest, Arnold pulls it open, reaching under the billowing skirt to lift it over her head. He pulls the lilies from her hair along with it as he casts it to the floor. Helga divulges him of his vest and shirt, and just as soon as he thinks he can luxuriate in the warmth of her skin on his -- 

She pushes him flat again, giggling as she stands up, her feet on either side of his hips. Arnold whines, his hands roaming up her calves. She steps on his chest, her heel digging sharply into his gut and he winces. It stings, only for a moment. The pressure of the sole of her foot on his sternum serves to be -- distracting. 

“ _Helga_ ,” he begs her. She unclasps the straps of her garter belt, taking her sweet time. He tugs at the sheer fabric of her stocking. “Please, I’ve been waiting so long…”

“But you’re so cute when you beg,” she toys with him, but he can tell she’s tired of this interlude, too -- her fingers are making quick work of her lingerie. She flings the belt off and it hits the floor, and she drops to her knees, bracketing his hips. Arnold swallows, hard. She pulls his belt through the loops of his slacks. Tugs them down. Rips the plastic wrapping open with her teeth. 

“Helga, _please_ ,” he mutters again, desperate and pitiful. His heart is pounding so hard. He feels her hands wrap around him as she slips the latex on. He listens to the shortness of her breath and closes his eyes.

She makes the faintest grunt. A push, pleasant pressure. The weight of her crushing against him. A surging heat burns a path from his groin straight up to his heart. Arnold sighs, and so does she. She’s so impossibly warm. 

“Helga,” he mutters. Threading a hand through her hair. Time all but slows. The frenzy they’d created has just about stopped. The air around them thickens. A silent room. He can only hear his pulse in his eardrums. She shivers on top of him. 

“Arnold,” comes her trembling voice. She curls her fists in the sheets. Swivels her hips. Slowly, she starts to move. Arnold feels his knees jerk. His head swims, his brain inside it melting. There is only the sensations, the hot, electric pulse of her heat against him. He wraps his arms around her, holds her close. 

Her lips meet his in the slowest kiss they’ve shared yet. Savoring. He tastes her. The sour bite of her lipstick. Lemonade from the dinner table. Helga groans into his mouth, whining. She can’t stay still for much longer. She moves and he stops breathing. He has to, or else -- 

“Helga, I’m,” he stammers. He finds her eyes, dark and glimmering. A little tearful. Her face is fever-flushed. 

“It’s okay,” she says, breathily, “I don’t mind if you just -- ”

The words stick in his throat. “I love you,” he chokes. A jerk of her hips. She catches herself on a gasp. “So much, Helga, I -- I -- ”

She whines. The sheets are rustling and her breathing stutters. Her back arches. Eyes falling shut. A white-hot pulse. Arnold is trembling. She rolls over him in waves. He wants to drown in her. 

“Oh, Arnold,” her voice sounds so far away, even right next to his ear. There’s a light behind his eyes, blinding bright like fireworks. Something coiled tight in his chest has snapped. Strings of a violin. “I love you too -- oh, God, I -- love you so much, please don’t go away from me again -- ”

A fluttering. The rock of her hips. He feels sparks, a spiraling, he feels her. Just her. Only her. Helga’s warmth, Helga’s lips, Helga’s skin. He grabs her face and pulls her down to kiss him, an all-consuming, tight embrace. He feels her melt into him. All of her, inside of him, inside of her. The two of them melding together. 

“Please don’t get on that plane,” she murmurs into his mouth. “Please don’t leave me again -- ”

Arnold scratches at her back, winding his legs around her hips. “I wasn’t going to.” 

It’s then they break apart. Helga peels herself off him, the loss of contact making the air freeze on his skin. Arnold coughs, almost laughing at how abruptly their moment is ending. He sits upright in the bed.

“Wait, really?” 

“Really,” he answers simply, feeling a smile spreading wide. “I was about to cancel my flight, but then you knocked.” 

Helga gapes at him, grabbing at the sheets to clutch under her chin. “Wh...you’re serious? You’re not going back?” 

Arnold shakes his head, his shoulders sagging with a deep exhale. “Well, I’ll have to eventually, y’know -- to get my things in order so I can move back, but -- ”

“You wanna move back here?” she parrots him, unblinking.

“Yeah,” he says, happily. “Unless you wanna live in San Lorenzo, but I don’t think -- ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Arnold, are you -- are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?” 

He pulls her back on top of him, tracing his fingers along her spine. Kissing her again. Feeling her fall into his arms. She makes the most thrilling little sigh, one he can taste right on the tip of his tongue. He smiles into it. Holds her close. 

“I wanna stay,” he tells her. “With you.”

“Arnold,” she whimpers. He kisses her again. 

“I wanna be together, the rest of our days,” he says. Puts his lips to her temple. “I wanna go to bed every night, knowing I’ll see you in the morning. I wanna see the world with you. I wanna grow old together. I wanna do everything we couldn’t before, all the things I thought we’d never get to -- ”

She kisses him, forceful and fervid, breathing fire into him as she rolls her hips into his. 

“I love you,” she tells him, dazed and dreamy and completely entranced by him. “Oh, Arnold -- ”

Her mouth would cut off his laughter, and again, they would kiss. Again, and again. And again. And one more time, before she would wriggle out of his grasp, grinning in that wicked way he so very likes.

"Wanna go for ice cream?" 

Arnold lifts his brows. "Ice cream?" 

"Yeah, y'know, Slausen's," she says. "They're open 'til eleven." 

"Can we stop a gas station on the way back?"

Helga scoffs. "What for?" 

He chortles, making those bedroom eyes at her again. 

"Oh, come _on_..."

"What, you don't wanna go again?" 

She purses her lips, can't fight a smile. "Ice cream first. I'm practically starving." 

"Whatever you say, beloved." 

She shoves him back on the bed for one more kiss. Just one more. Arnold sighs into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "you look gorgeous."  
> きまってるね。  
> kimatte ru ne.  
> ^ apologies to any japanese speakers if this is wildly incorrect, this is just what google told me :x


	9. epilogue

And so, Arnold would stay. 

For another week or two, at least. Long enough for Helga to get her ducks in a row and move out of her flat. They go back to San Lorenzo together and marry at the altar of the Green Eyes. (officiated by the little princess, who has now become a queen.) They move back stateside with his parents. Grandma and Grandpa are waiting for them at the Sunset Arms -- neither of them would pass away for several years.

Helga gets published. It’s not a million-dollar hit, but it gets her well off. Arnold goes back to school to get licensed and becomes a child psychologist, and she keeps writing -- she goes back to Vic & Morrie’s to work on bikes and cars part-time. It is not a glamorous life, but it is a happy one. Eventually, they become parents to triplets: Hilda Gertrude, Cecile Etoile, and Edward Philip -- only one of them inheriting a football-shaped head. (sorry, cecile.)

Gerald and Phoebe buy a condo close by on Vine. They have two kids of their own, Kiara and Yumi. Phoebe is a robotics engineer and Gerald still streams his King’s Game sessions on WeTube, but he also works in IT at his wife’s company. He and Helga trade-off driving their kids to-and-from choir rehearsals and dance practice. They do double-family brunch every other Sunday.

Nadine and Sheena would have their little boy, Eli. (he would end up babysitting the shortman and johanssen kids.) Sheena teaches ecology at Hillwood High, and Nadine ends up having to rent a bigger space for the animal shelter. Their adopted daughter Ivy would later marry Harold’s first daughter, Sarah Jane.

Eugene marries his boyfriend back in California. His sitcom is a huge hit, and he is asked to co-write a new series for a big-name streaming company. On his next visit to Hillwood, he asks Lila to audition for him. She tries out on a whim -- and lands the leading role. Helga and Rhonda help her buy an apartment in LA, and she takes her father with her. She falls in love with one of her co-stars, the pretty woman playing a role opposite her. Helga’s kids beg her to let them watch the show with Auntie Lila, but they would have to wait until they’re older.

Rhonda and Curly elope no less than a month after Gerald and Phoebe’s wedding. Rhonda sells her flat and takes him touring all across Europe. His photos of her are so iconic, it gets them sponsored by Vague and countless other notable influencers. They come back to Hillwood to visit during holidays, spoiling their many nieces and nephews with cash and expensive clothes and toys. They don’t have any children of their own, but their sphinx cat (charles) is an internet celebrity. 

Harold reconnects with Patty Smith and they live together on top of Green Meats. They have two kids of their own, Eden Elizabeth and Jeremy Abraham. Patty runs kick-boxing classes and works part-time at Vic’s with Helga. 

Sid and Stinky get offered a record deal, but they turn it down, happy to be making music independently. Their streaming channel gets them popular enough to move out of the city if they really want to, but they don’t. They stay in Stinky’s family’s house, bartending and working at the record shop, and keep playing their music. Stinky takes every pile of dirt in their yard and fills it to bursting with flowers. Cecile and Yumi come over every week for piano lessons from Uncle Sid. (they’re gonna start a band one day.) 

One day, they go back to the jungle -- Arnold and Helga, after their kids have grown up and started lives of their own. They are not scientists, nor are they trained explorers, but they are innovative and supportive and love helping others, so that is what they do. They go wherever they are needed, until the end of their days. 

No one knows for sure which of them fell sick first. Maybe it was Helga, after a bite from an endangered lizard species, but their kids will insist it was Arnold, poking his head somewhere he shouldn't have and contracting a rare disease. But one thing is for certain: wherever one went, the other followed right behind -- neither one conceding to be without the other. Arnold and Helga would be laid to rest together, in the place Arnold’s parents woke up, the place their adventure began. Hand in hand, the golden chain of a tawdry locket wound around their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') here's a few more notes nobody asked for
> 
> * arnold's tattoo: "family" in the language of the green eyes, a script above his heart
> 
> * I really wanted the green eyes’ princess to make an appearance, but there were two problems with that -- one being she doesn’t have a canon name (to my knowledge) and i didn’t feel confident just picking one i thought would make sense, and two, i wanted her and arnold to communicate in her language, but i am also not confident in fantasy language and i couldn’t find any references to what was used in the jungle movie, so i cut that out LOL if anyone does happen to find any information regarding that tho, i would love if you linked me! 
> 
> * arnold is fluent in spanish, green eyes language, and maybe knows a couple others conversationally. helga knows a bit of french and japanese -- i think later in life she wanted to learn for phoebe (so they can talk shit about gerald and arnold in front of them ofc)
> 
> * i have no reason for making helga a mechanic other than i think it woulda been hot if she grew up to a baddie biker babe 乁༼☯‿☯✿༽ㄏ
> 
> * instagram influencer rhonda lloyd is the hill i die on for her
> 
> * this doesn't really pertain to the story itself but i did run around on instagram and deviantart for inspo on adult imaginations of the characters, and i wanna say i'm in love with kerenitychan's depictions of them in particular -- also monyartz, tapioca_pudding, noodle-doodle, melfidraws, dokinana -- they're all incredible! 
> 
> * i hope you've enjoyed!! tempted to write a prequel LOL

**Author's Note:**

> i was TODAY YEARS OLD when i found out this is an actual song. wow. doris day, everybody
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ud7ZTU4FS3U


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